


The Letter

by leradny



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Blend of Musical and Brick canon, F/M, Family, Fantine Lives, Fix-It of Sorts, Good Christians, Hurt/Comfort, Jean is a Soft Uncle as well as Soft Dad, Marriage of Convenience, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-05-18 11:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leradny/pseuds/leradny
Summary: Sending a letter to his estranged sister near the end of his original five-year sentence changes Jean Valjean's life.





	1. Of Jean Valjean and his parole

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Les Mis fandom.
> 
> This thing began, as most things began, with me wanting Fantine to live because I desperately ship her with Valjean. POETIC FOILS. Then I remembered Eponine and Gavroche. And then I started reading the Brick and found out about Jean's sister who he never saw again after being imprisoned. I am soft. YOU get to live and YOU get to live and YOU and YOU and yes even you Javert!!!
> 
> \- Appearances are based on the movie. As a result I am completely doing away with Jean's canon age because I didn't buy Hugh Jackman as a 55 year old when I saw Les Mis in 2012 and I don't buy it now, LMFAO. Hugh was probably 40 or 41 during filming and a few gray streaks Did Not Change That Impression At All. So here, Jean was born in 1787, went to jail in 1813, and was released from prison in 1818.
> 
> \- Cosette was left at the Thernardier's inn that year, so I'm taking the opportunity to have Cosette be rescued even earlier!!!!! But, also because I am soft, Jean still rescues a lost little girl in the woods several years later. Three guesses as to who it is.
> 
> \- Javert seems like the type of person who legitimately enjoys filling paperwork and writing instructions on how to file forms.
> 
> \- 5 francs would be about $250 in US dollars today, according to the currency converter and inflation calculator I used. Which is still a dreadfully small sum for five years of prison work, but at least it puts things into a little bit of perspective.
> 
> \- Because I am a musical nerd--the conversation Jean and Javert have starts out as that part in 'Look Down' where Javert just hands over the passport and yells at him, but when Javert starts commenting on how Jean has basically been a model inmate, it switches to the cadence of when Javert meets 'M. Madeleine'.

**Toulon, 1817**

Jean Valjean had been born in 1787, but the most important event of his life occurred in the winter of 1812.

He had no parents, only an older sister who took care of him as long as her husband was alive. But when the man died, it fell to Jean to aid his sister in providing for her family, and he took up the family business of tree-pruning. In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out as a hay-maker, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did whatever he could. His sister worked also but what could she do with seven little children? It was a sad group enveloped in misery, which was being gradually annihilated. A very hard winter came. Jean had no work. The family had no bread. No bread literally. Seven children!

One Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker on the Church Square at Faverolles, was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a violent blow on the grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed through a hole made by a blow from a fist, through the grating and the glass. The arm seized a loaf of bread and carried it off. Isabeau ran out in haste; the robber fled at the full speed of his legs. Isabeau ran after him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but his arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean. He was sentenced to five years in prison for theft, and for breaking and entering an inhabited place at night.

Towards the end of his fourth year in prison, Jean Valjean's turn to escape arrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. But just before the final junction of their plan, while the others were urging him along before the guards returned from their distraction, he thought of his sister and her sole remaining child. Where were the other six? Perhaps she did not know herself. Every morning she went to a printing office, where she was a folder and stitcher. She was obliged to be there at six o'clock in the morning--long before daylight in winter. In the same building with the printing office there was a school, and to this school she took her little boy, who was seven years old.

But as she entered the printing office at six, and the school only opened at seven, the child had to wait in the courtyard, for the school to open, for an hour--one hour of a winter night in the open air! They would not allow the child to come into the printing office, because he was in the way, they said. When the workmen passed in the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated on the pavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast asleep in the shadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained, an old woman, the portress, took pity on him; she took him into her den, where there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs, and the little one slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the cat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock the school opened, and he entered.

All this came to him in a moment. His sister and her sole remaining son, little better off than he was outside of keeping their liberty. Jean thought of how close he was to returning. He had been sentenced to five years and served four.

 _If I only wait_ , Jean thought, _if I only wait one more year I will be free without having to avail myself--and should I be captured, three years will be added to my sentence. Three years, by God above! I will not put that further weight onto my own back._

He shook his head and gestured for someone else to go on, for he had lost his nerve. There was no shortage of those who desired their freedom--someone else eagerly scrambled past, and Jean Valjean returned to his chamber without being seen. The man was caught within two days and received an additional three years onto his sentence.

As for Jean, he had resolved to attempt no further escapes and devoted his time to patience. He had a mind to learn his letters that he may write to his sister, even if there were a thousand reasons that the letter might not reach Josephine. They were both unlearned at the time he had been sentenced. He went to the school for convicts in order to remedy this. After much tutoring and searching for where his sister lived--in Paris, on a poor street Rear Saint-Sulpice in the Rue du Gindre--he sent his first letter to her. And to his immense surprise he received one back which read:

_To my dear brother -_

_Thank God that you have written to us, Jean! I learned reading and writing only once I got my job at the printer's shop, so I did not recall where you were imprisoned--and of course you could not know where I had gone when I left home. Dear brother, I know you were sentenced five years, and I will do my best to meet you in Toulon when it finally ends. Mathieu and I await your return. Only he remains of your nieces and nephews after the terrible sickness sent them to Heaven._

_May He be willing that we meet again,_  
_Josephine_

Jean wept upon reading this. Part was grief at the loss of his nieces and nephews, and part was utter gratitude that his sister bore him no ill will. He wrote several times and did not always receive a response back, and whether they were short or long or despairing or glad, he could bear to throw none of these letters away. For the next six months he kept the first letter folded in his shirt against his breast, as a talisman of sorts when the despair of five years grew too heavy for him to bear. He visited the chapel often during this time, praying to God for strength and patience, and when the chapel was closed he would lie in his wooden bed recalling the words of his sister exactly.

Upon release he was at last given leave to use a blade to shave his jaw, which was the only thing he could change about himself to look more presentable. His head was already shaved, as prisoners' were. They were all issued the same nondescript red cassock. So he was let out of the galleys of Toulon in 1818 with all in his possession totalling to five francs he had saved during his imprisonment, and the letters from his sister.

Javert was known for being the strictest officer on duty in Toulon. The cautions of prisoners would sometimes grow into superstitions, and especially for those officers who were something of a mystery. Javert had no wife or children, nor brothers or sisters, and it was unfathomable that he was one of those men who have a family yet did not speak of them. He was a skilled policemen who drew in the most dangerous murderers and rapists and scum of the earth--but other times he would haul in men and women as young as sixteen crying out for mercy who had committed their crimes out of simple desperation instead of malice, often for the sake of their families. And Jean often found himself comforting these young ones who were so like him.

Javert admonished his fellow officers as often for wearing stained gloves as he did for letting criminals go free. For this it was whispered that where Javert's heart was, there was only a book of law. Only the bravest ones said this in mockery. The rest said it in fear.

Jean was not a brave man. He made up his mind not to argue with Javert as the man said, "Now prisoner 24601, your time is up and your parole's begun. You know what that means."

"What are the conditions of my parole, Monsieur?" Jean asked.

"Follow to the letter your itinerary." He unfolded a page of paper with instructions on it. "Can you read this?"

Jean accepted it and said nothing besides what was written, in the same mild (some said unfeeling) tone of voice Javert spoke in when not aggravated. "Within one fortnight, with six days' allowance for delays, Jean Valjean branded Prisoner No. 24601 is to journey from Toulon to Pontarlier for report and parole."

"Correct." Javert did not praise nor rebuke him. "And this passport jaune. Read it as well."

So he was testing Jean's literacy. "Crimes: 1) Destruction of Property: Broke the window of a bakery, amounting to a loss of 12 francs for replacement and installment." His throat tightened at the restatement of his crimes, but he cleared it and went on. "2) Thievery: Stole a loaf of bread amounting to a loss of 2 sous." Despite Jean's anger, despite how much he hated the passport jaune for the folly it represented and the struggle it would bring, he knew he was treading on thin ice and prayed to God for patience. He hid his humiliation by folding the passport neatly and setting it in his pocket. "Is there anything else you would like me to do, Monsieur?"

There was a pause, seemingly the longest in Jean Valjean's life. And then Javert spoke. While his tone was not light it was perhaps less forbidding. "I hear from Father Marc that you have found your faith. Attending church each week for mass and confession--as honest men would do. Does he speak true?"

What could Jean say to this unexpected question? "I thank the Father Marc for his review."

"I see you've shaven clean and hold a proper stance. You do not rage or wail as other inmates might, but speak with courtesy. A change indeed." What path Javert was treading, Jean could not fathom. He nodded. He did not trust his mouth. "You came unlearned here, but now write every month to your sister and her son. And five years have you served but not once tried to run, 24601."

It dawned on him that Javert may, in an instance he would have deemed rarer than the sky rending apart, not simply be listing a series of attributes as a test of his memory or manner, but as a compliment to his character. He dared not thank Javert in case he was wrong, so instead he said, "As a sinner turns from sin may a criminal from crime, and a fool from ignorance--with God's good grace."

Another pause. Javert looked at him with steady, imperturbable eyes, then withdrew from his pocket another missive. "Forgive my idle speech. My memory has struck--I have in hand a note. No need to read aloud, it is addressed to you alone. I leave you here." Jean took it as Javert turned on a heel to leave. Perhaps there were more instructions, or even an excerpt from the Bible as a further test. But then why would Javert tell him not to bother reading it aloud? Why would he leave?

He unfolded the page and recognized with bewilderment his sister's handwriting, more of a scribble in hastiness. Josephine had not even bothered with salutations or closing and the message read simply:

_Good Jean, I hope this arrives in time. Mathieu and I are traveling to Toulon now and in God's name I hope we will be in time to greet you as you are set free._

The letter was dated of a fortnight and several days before. It could only have arrived a few hours ago. The paperwork of release had started then, and he had not thought to check the office for mail. Why had Javert made an effort to check if there was post for an inmate who would be released not a few hours afterward? Perhaps he had thought it urgent and, with the same rigid adherence to law that drove his career, refused to read mail which was not addressed to him.

Suddenly Jean was seized with impatience. He could not stand another moment in this prison knowing there was a friendly face waiting for him outside. He made way, hardly containing his excitement as he wound his way through a path only officers and freed prisoners trod. And there at the end of the exoneration hall, he found his sister and nephew were indeed waiting for him.

Josephine Gauthier, nee Valjean, had had seven children and long dark brown hair, as Jean remembered from five years ago. While she was but thirty-nine years to his thirty-one, she seemed a decade older. Her hair had been cropped short to be sold at one point, and there were silver streaks in it. Her face was drawn, and she had shadows under her eyes. She wore a traveling suit of a white shirtwaist and a cheerful red skirt. But he did still recognize her, and to an extent the young boy hiding behind her skirts. Mathieu seemed nervous, but not altogether frightened, and Jean was desperate not to estrange what little family he had left.

He crouched onto one knee and smiled and spoke softly, as if he was trying to win over a stray dog.

"Mathieu? Little Mathieu?"

"Uncle Jean!" the boy cried. He left his mother's side to throw his arms around Jean's neck. "It is you! I did not remember your face--but your voice, I know your voice!"

"Oh, dear boy!" Jean wept as he embraced his nephew. He was a thin boy of about eight now, much changed from the three-year-old he remembered. "You were but a babe in arms when I was sent here!"

"I was not a babe," Mathieu insisted, before being distracted by his uncle's tears. "Uncle, why do you weep? You can't be sad now that you are free."

He stopped his tears with great effort. "Child, I wept tears of joy, not sadness." He could not bear to tell Mathieu that his yellow passport branded him a criminal forevermore so he could not be truly free. "Yes, joy--at how this terrible thing is now behind us. Now please, Josephine. It has done my soul a world of good to see you both at last, but I must be off to Pontarlier to report for my parole within a fortnight or so."

"We know," Josephine told him. "We'll travel with you, of course."

"But Josephine--" It was the furthest from unwelcome, but the fact was Paris and Pontarlier were several days' trip away from each other. "Do you yet live in Paris?"

She smiled. "Pontarlier is but a stop on our way home, Jean. I have saved what I could to buy bread for the journey, and I would not have you travel alone after spending five years in prison."

He embraced her and, for a moment, allowed himself to weep again into her shoulder. Then he steadied himself for the sake of his nephew and strode to the door. "Come, then. We cannot sail the rivers from here, but I hope we can buy a carriage ride for part of the way, at least." It was autumn and he turned an eye to the trees in the distance, turning red and gold. "It will be warm enough in the daytime, but I have a list of inns we may approach when it gets cold."

This list was not given to him by Javert, but by one of the kind brothers of the school who had taught him to read.

"Cold? Oh, wait!" Josephine opened her carpet-bag and from it withdrew a folded green coat and a hat. "I nearly forgot that I made this for you." She shook it out and gave it to him while she inspected the hat. "It is plain, but it will keep you warm."

He took it, throat all too weak for words. The coat was woolen, yes, but the warmth he felt as he pulled it on was not solely from the wool. With the love his dear sister felt towards him, he would have gladly walked out in the middle of winter with only her letter as protection from the cold. He felt for the first time some weight of five years' despair lift from his shoulders.

"--something closer to the fashions of today, though of course I had no time to..." His sister was still speaking and he hastily looked back at her. "What is it, dear Jean? Did I misrecall your favorite color? It is green, wasn't it? Surely I remembered it right."

"Green..." He had to stop and look back. It was not that he had forgotten what his favorite color was, but that the information had been put away after five years of disuse, as an unnecessary tool. Like his name and his role as a tree-pruner, simple loves such as that of colors and music and food had been put away in favor of his role as Prisoner 24601 in the prison of Toulon. "Yes. It was green. Forgive me, sister, I was lost for words."

\- - -

The first innkeeper they met along the way cast his scrutiny on Jean, as it was only a day's walk away from Toulon's prison and many prisoners stopped by on the way out. Jean swallowed his pride, and rather than hide his passport, showed it and admitted, "Yes, I was a prisoner. But I have served my full sentence without complaint and I have been freed on condition that I report at Pontarlier for further instructions within a fortnight. Turn me away if you will--but this is my sister and her son, and I hope you will let a room to them at the very least."

The innkeeper looked at the passport and his brow creased. "Five years--for stealing a loaf of bread?"

"Yes," Jean said. "The winter had been hard that year. But even so, I should not have turned to thievery."

"Jean was not stealing for himself but on my behalf!" Josephine interjected. "For my husband had died, and Jean was providing for me in his place, and I had seven children back then. Now only Mathieu is left to me, and my poor brother. If you turn him out, we will go with him. He is the only kin left to us in the world, criminal or no, and he has served his sentence--"

"Peace, madame." The innkeeper shook his head. "I was asking no explanation. I only meant that I had not known the law was so harsh nowadays."

The innkeeper's wife who was collecting dishes at a table shook her head. "I recall that winter five years ago. It nearly froze us to death."

"Come in," the innkeeper said, offering his hand. After a pause, Jean took it. "A criminal you may be. But as the Lord said, let he who is without sin cast the first stone. And I'll not have the good widow or her son stay out in the cold."

Of course there were other innkeepers who were not so forgiving. They turned Jean away upon seeing his passport jaune, and were not swayed when Josephine said she and her son would go with her brother. Then the little family would walk down the street to find some other inn for dinner if not a night's rest. But instead of an inn they found a church, who readily accepted them. From then on if no innkeeper would let them a room, they would seek out a church or convent or other house of God.

Along the desolate stretches of wild land, there were no inns or churches for miles and they could not pay fare for a carriage to take them all the way to the next stop to Pontarlier. On these days after walking north until their feet were sore, Jean would make a fire while Josephine cobbled together a bed from woolen blankets and coats. When time came for them to sleep, they set little Mathieu firmly between them. The boy's health did not suffer much and he woke up in good spirits the next day.

One night, half asleep underneath a great rowan tree, Mathieu mumbled against Jean's shoulder, "This is better than Paris." Josephine smiled and stroked her son's hair, and Jean thought about how many times he had bitterly rued his life in prison and was grateful to have a nephew who spoke this way about a tree for a roof. And then, with the blunt honesty of children, Mathieu went on: "I hate Paris."

"Mathieu!" Josephine chided him.

The quiet moment was lost. Jean laughed and sat up. "What could you hate about Paris so much, nephew?"

"The print shop," Mathieu said, further scandalizing his mother.

"Mathieu Gauthier, the print shop was what gave us money for bread and your schooling and even this trip to see your uncle."

"But they wouldn't let me wait inside for school to open!"

Jean sobered. It was the one detail he remembered with vivid clarity during his imprisonment--an image of his nephew shivering on the street during the last bitter hours of a winter night. He had never spoken of it with Josephine, fearing that it might upset his sister. And on the other side, Josephine went deathly silent.

"Oh, Mathieu," she said with tears in her voice. "I begged them to let you in, but the rules had been there long before I came along. I could not hope that they would allow an exception for us, even for an hour."

"But that rule is stupid," Mathieu said. "I wouldn't have gotten in the way. I would have promised. I hate Paris and I never want to go back there. Can't we just stay here?"

"You have another week to enjoy the journey," Jean told him. "But then, dear boy, I'm afraid you must return to school and Paris so you may have a roof over your head." Mathieu grumbled until he fell asleep. And as is the custom of children, he woke up in his usual good humor as his mother and uncle packed away their things to start traveling again. The next seven nights passed without much more incident.

\- - -

Pontarlier was a stern village with the Jura mountains rising in the distance. Mathieu gaped openmouthed at them while his mother busied herself finding an inn to stay, and when it was found Jean set about reporting for parole. Josephine caught him before he left and left Mathieu playing with the innkeeper's children while she followed. She gave no explanation but she looked as a soldier might upon marching to battle.

Jean checked into the office and waited for an officer in the quiet waiting room. That was the extent of the tentative peace Jean could summon, for the gendarme approached Jean and then frowned before even saying a word. While Jean wracked his brain to think of a reason for the gendarme's bad humor, he knew there was nothing he had done. Travel from Toulon to Pontarlier took a fortnight, with six days' of allowance for delays, and they had made it in fifteen. He was here within visiting hours, and even Josephine's presence could not be an affront to the rules for there were several people waiting with other released inmates. So he thought with dread that this might simply be an officer disposed to anger for the slightest reason, and steeled himself for patience as to not rouse the man's temper.

"Jean Valjean--24601?" Jean nodded. "That coat is quite new. Where did you get it?"

And then it became clear that this was where the officer's bad humor--or rather, suspicion--stemmed from. He thought Jean had stolen the coat.

The soft chatter in the waiting room stopped abruptly. But Josephine bristled next to him. She drew her head up and stood up straight, looking the gendarme in the eye--she was a tall woman, though not taller than her brother--and she said sternly, as if the officer was a child: "I made it for Jean. Is it a crime, Monsieur, for a woman to sew a new coat for her brother after five years away?"

"No offense meant, Madame," the gendarme said. He did not apologize to either of them, but he filled out the proper paperwork and gave no further limits onto Jean's liberty besides awaiting for a response from Javert at Toulon. This would take perhaps three days. Jean and his sister went back to the inn.

Aside from the parole officer, Pontarlier was far enough from any prisons and parolees few enough that rarely was Jean asked for his papers, especially not with his sister and nephew beside him. He could breakfast at the inn with other families and watch as Mathieu played or Josephine made small talk with the other women. He could not find it in him to participate, in case he was asked the hated question of how he had been living of late, so he simply watched. And he wondered, not for the first time, if his sister had come with him to Pontarlier precisely for the reason of giving him sanctuary of a sort as he returned to living a normal life.

\- - -

The innkeeper's wife approached them on the second day. "Monsieur Valjean, I beg your pardon for asking a favor, but my husband is collecting tomorrow's bread at the bakery with our cart and will not return for several hours. In the meantime, I've so many dishes--and no water to wash them! Would you mind terribly drawing some water for the kitchen?"

And Jean was so pleased that someone besides his family had approached him of their own free will that he would have agreed to any number of tasks more strenuous than fetching water. "Madame, I am at your service."

"Oh, thank you, good m'sieur!" She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then a large bucket. "I shall tell my husband to take it off your bill. Simply go along the path into the woods and take the first right."

As Jean set off for the pathway which led to the well, he heard Mathieu's voice calling, "Uncle Jean!" The boy ran up to him. "Where are you going?"

"Fetching water for our kind hostess. Would you like to come with me?"

It was still light and Mathieu readily agreed. Though he would only be half an hour at most, Jean told Josephine that he was taking Mathieu on a walk, and she agreed to receive any message from the parole officer in his place. As long as the bucket was empty, Jean pulled his nephew up onto his shoulders and walked with him as such, to Mathieu's delight. The boy shouted, "Uncle Jean, you're the strongest man in the world! How can I be strong like you?"

"But Mathieu, you already know the secret to great strength."

"What! No I don't!"

"Doesn't your mother say to eat your vegetables and do all of your chores?"

"That's the secret?" Mathieu heaved a great sigh. "Maybe I don't want to be strong after all." Jean laughed so hard he was compelled to put Mathieu down for fear of shaking the boy off. And In the sunshine with birdsong all around them, he nearly forgot the reason he was here in Pontarlier to begin with. Then they returned to find Josephine speaking with a uniformed man.

"There he is," Josephine said, waving. "Come along, Mathieu, this man has a message for Uncle Jean." She took the bucket and went to the innkeeper's wife.

"Ah, Jean Valjean," the officer said. He was a friendly-looking sort and rather young, which he'd learned messengers often were. "I was about to leave this message from Toulon for you--further orders from Monsieur Javert."

It was an envelope of regular weight, but Javert needed few words to issue orders which might ruin a man or woman's life. Jean thought with dread if he was to part with his family after only three weeks, the delicate peace he had gained in the days after release would be shattered. The message read:

_To M. Jean Valjean, formerly Prisoner No. 24601:_

_It is a pleasure to report that as you have served your full sentence without exacerbating it by committing further crimes, that said crime did not result in the harm intentional or otherwise of a living person besides yourself, and that you met your initial parole order in a timely manner, there are only these further instructions to issue to you:_

_1) You may live in any city provided it has a fully staffed police force and postal service._

_2) Within one month of arrival at this city, you must fill out this following form labelled 'D-24601, Parole Report No. 3.' State your address and place of employment should you find one, that we may send further messages to you. File this report with the Director of Prisoner Affairs subdivision Toulon, or any clerk willing to deliver the form. Please also include the name and address of any person you authorise to receive a copy of the same messages in your stead, in case of delay or misplacement of the original mail. If there are none able or willing to forward post to you, there shall be another copy kept at the nearest major post office available for retrieval with suitable verbal or written proof of your identity. A similar report must be sent every six months if only to report no change in address or employment. Should you miss a report for any reasons we will send a messenger inquiring of the delay. If we receive a satisfactory report, we will send no response._

_3) Within one month of arrival at that same city, a separate parcel consisting of the following form labeled 'D-24601, Passport Addendum No. 4023b', along with your passport jaune, is to be given to the Director of Prisoner Affairs - Subdivision Toulon. The Director shall give you further instruction._

_\- Insp. Javert_

As it was not stated that he had permission to read the addendum, Jean did not read it and felt uneasy at yet another addition to his badge of shame, but at the very least he had some of his liberty restored. He thought of no city other than Paris where his only family lived, and looked to Josephine with new hope springing forth.

"What, Jean?" Josephine asked.

"Sister, I am traveling with you to Paris."

She laughed, then reined her joy in as she would an excitable horse and asked, "We shall be happy to keep you, of course! But for how long can you stay with us, dear brother?"

"Only a short time." He paused, and while Josephine's face fell, it was worth it to see her reaction to what he said next: "For I hope to find work and a place of my own within the year, that I'll earn my keep rather than burdening you."

She gasped. "Praise be to such a merciful God!" And for the first time since she met him at Toulon, Josephine wept openly and Jean was the one to embrace her. "Oh Jean, speak not of leaving us when you find work. It would do Mathieu well to have his uncle close after so many years without--" She did not speak for a moment. "Without any other family save me."

He thought of his sister's six other children, gone to God, and his goodbrother's death which had, indirectly, been the reason for Jean's imprisonment in the first place, though he begrudged the man not at all. The injustice of losing a member of the family was what he hated, and he had wept at the funeral as bitterly as any Josephine or any of the children. He thought of poor Mathieu staying outside on the street on a winter night because his mother could not leave him at home to walk to school himself, and yet could not take him into the print shop with her, and the school was not open for an hour and all of his older brothers and sisters who might have looked after him were dead. His hand touched the spot at his breast where Josephine's first letter lay.

"As you wish, dear sister," he said softly. "Perhaps I will stay a little longer than a year."

\- - -

It took but ten days to reach Paris. The three days afterward were very busy. Josephine was hard-pressed to find room for her brother in her little flat as she and Mathieu already shared the sole bedroom, and she would not hear of him sleeping on the floor. They arranged for a cot in the tiny room which barely fit his tall frame. "But do not think of settling, Jean!" Josephine warned him. "You are no longer in prison and as such you _will_ have a proper bed!"

He agreed quickly, then turned his attention to filing his report and turning in his passport for adjustment.

The director was not in the office when he arrived, so Jean's report was received and put into a box for later processing. Upon receipt of the addendum to his passport, the clerk nodded and said this could be done without the director. She disappeared into the filing room and handed him several blue papers with much the same information as his yellow passport.

"In place of your passport jaune," the clerk said, "This passport bleu explains that your crime was minor and due to good behavior during and after your sentence, you have been deemed fit for any usual place of employment."

Jean's jaw nearly dropped. He had not known this. Why on earth would no one tell him in five years that there might be mercy awaiting them after reporting for parole?

But upon leaving the office with his new passport, he sobered, thinking of the good fortune which had allowed him such providence in the eyes of the law. For one thing, his crime was minor and a singular occasion. He had repented and behaved as well as possible. For the more hardened hearts who committed murders in cold blood and showed no remorse, for those who began like he had yet tried to escape and exacerbated their sentence, they would not have this mercy waiting for them.

And he thought of the time allotted them for travel to Pontarlier and realized a fortnight would not have been enough had he been traveling with only his passport jaune.

No one would have let him stay at any inn. He would have been forced to sleep out of doors, turned away from carriage services, refused work, would have needed to travel further to find food, and his speed would have suffered as such. If his sister had not been there to argue his case, to make him seem less like a dangerous criminal, it would have taken very long indeed. Josephine--a fierce angel among women! She and Mathieu were the only things keeping his hope alive through the deepest pits of despair, to give him a reason to behave more nobly rather than sink deeper. If he had not thought of her--why, he might very well have gone on with his escape attempt and gotten caught. It was likely he would have kept the passport jaune for the rest of his sorry existence.

He thought of the little girls, Madeleine and Evelyn, who had once stolen milk from a neighbor out of hunger, whom he would never see again save at their graves and in his dreams and at judgment day. Thieves already at eight and ten! Madeleine would have been fifteen now, old enough to be charged with thievery by the courts. Coming into Toulon at twenty-six he had been a fairly young man, but he thought of those men and women even younger than he. How he had tried to stop their tears! But they had only just crossed the threshold into adulthood and could not keep their heads long enough to realise that good behavior would serve them better than raging at the officers' injustice--though injustice it was.

His heart broke upon thinking of how many things could have gone wrong and resulted in him not receiving this blue passport, which detailed his crime without branding him quite the outcast as a yellow one would have. He resolved that, no matter how great his plight, he would never resort to crime again. And yet, knowing the desperation which drove little ones and grown men alike to steal, could he cast judgment as a stone? No, he felt their pain too deeply in his own marrow. He recalled that when he had encountered his nieces stealing, he had paid for the milk. They had drunk it already so there was no way it could be returned. And yet he had not told Josephine either. He had known hungry children could hardly restrain themselves as an adult might.

 _People steal bread and milk and apples because no one is generous in times of need,_ Jean thought. _I need not condemn them to slavery as I was. Perhaps if I am merciful towards a thief, as I wish someone had been towards me, they might turn away from crime as their only resort._


	2. Of Fantine and her daughter Cosette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantine has parents in this variation because I was working off the musical, which doesn't mention Fantine was an orphan. By the time I started reading the Brick I'd already written the scenes where she writes to her family. Oh well, here she still loses her job at the factory because someone is a complete ass, and her family disowns her and throws her out so pretty much the same thing happens.
> 
> According to the book, Fantine paid 57 francs in advance for Cosette's care, which would total to about $2850!!!! OH HONEY. YOU GOT SCAMMED SO BAD.

**Paris, 1818**

Gaining employment was a difficult matter, and the first week most of all. Jean had been turned down by all within walking distance from Josephine's flat and returned stomping around so that Mathieu rushed out expecting an elephant from India, and Josephine feared another arrest. Jean made no effort for the next three days to find any sort of work. Other than walking Mathieu to school and eating the occasional heel of bread, he lay in bed despairing.

At first Josephine let him rest. But then she arrived home from work one day, saw that Jean was still in bed, and shook her head. Striding over, she yanked the quilt off as if he was sixteen again.

"For goodness' sake, Jean!" she told him as he groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. "You act as though you still have that yellow passport."

"I might as well," Jean said. "Everyone I ask has turned me down. What use is a different-colored passport if people treat me the same way?"

"Two weeks past and you think the cause is lost? It took me three months to find my job at the printer's."

Jean sat up. "Three months?"

"Yes, Jean. I had no crime, but being a widow with a child is as much a burden as being an ex-criminal when employers are jealous of your time. I nearly had to beg the shop to save a place for me when I left to take you home--after working diligently without break or tardiness these past three years!"

He had not thought of that before, and rued himself for being so naive. "Is it so difficult to find work now?"

"It was difficult before you were imprisoned as well," Josephine said. "I think you've simply forgotten. How long was it before you stole that bread?"

Try as he might, he could not recall the exact time. It had been a dreadful eternity where all seven days of the week were marked with at least one child crying from hunger. He could not remember what exactly had sparked his intent to steal from the baker, either. He hung his head and said, "I know not how long."

"Two months," Josephine said. "I recall because your last job was cutting firewood, which ended a few weeks before Christmas. After New Year's we took down the tinsel, and the next month you were caught stealing and imprisoned." He could not look her in the eye. "Oh, Jean." She sat down on the cot with him and clasped his hand. "You acted much like this back then, too. Please, brother, be patient--though I know how hard it is."

"It's far from impatience, Josephine," Jean told her. "Not this time. I simply wish not to be a burden on you. You have your own child to feed and I am a grown man. I should work for my own bread."

"Yes, I do have a child." She paused. "But now there is only Mathieu left of my seven children. And at least I am working." She laid her head on his shoulder. "We'll not starve quite as badly this time, Jean. And you are still helping so much with Mathieu, walking with him to school so that he will not stay an hour in the cold like he did last year or the year before and cleaning the flat when I am too tired. Think of that as your work while you search."

So, in the time between imprisonment and employment, Jean doubled his efforts on taking care of Mathieu. It so happened that this was what led to his first job out of prison. A little over three months later, he was walking with his nephew through the city and testing Mathieu's schooling by having him read the shop signs.

"What's that say?" He pointed to a bakery and Mathieu squinted. "Come, lad, squinting won't help. We're quite close."

"Bou... lang... erie," Mathieu sounded out.

"Very well, Mathieu!"

"Yes, child, very well." An old lady with white hair sat in a rocking chair on the porch of her home. She was wrapped warmly in a shawl and woolen cap, rocking and knitting. While she worked without looking down at her piece, her hands trembled and the shawl or scarf grew slowly. "Is that your son, Monsieur?"

"My nephew," Jean said. "His mother is working and they have let the children out early at school, so he's in my keeping for the moment."

"It's nice to see a man helping children learn to read," the grandmother said. "Can you write as well?" At Jean's affirmation, she set down her knitting and drew a pen from her purse with a slow and quavering hand. "Would you mind terribly giving me a sample?"

Jean wrote a piece of scripture from memory. Perhaps not entirely accurate, but it was the only thing he could think of, and it was something he dwelt upon every night as he lay in bed.

_For of the plans I have for you, declared the Lord, plans of prosperity and not famine, plans to give you hope and a future._

"Now that's a good clear script that even I may read it!" the woman said. "My name is Denise. I'd pay you well if you wrote some letters to my family for Christmas. I have twenty-three grandchildren! My old hands shake so that I cannot write to all of them myself--and barring that, I can hardly see the page."

"Good Madame," Jean said. "I would gladly take you up on your offer, but..."

"Oh, time is no issue if you've work to get to. They are short notes, that is all. Within the next week or so would be perfectly manageable."

"No, Madame, I meant that..." He paused, wondering if he should tell the woman of his blue passport. "I am not employed at the moment. And I think if you heard the reason, you'd not take kindly to me."

"What, have you been in prison?" Denise cackled as Jean's heart froze. "That would matter not to me."

"To my shame, Madame, I must inform you that I have been in prison." He brought out his blue passport.

To his complete surprise, the old woman adjusted her spectacles and leaned close to read it, then tutted and waved a hand in dismissal. "I said what I said, my lad. Stealing a loaf of bread means nothing to me. That's but a fortnight in the brig."

"No, I spent five years in prison."

"I beg your pardon! Did you kill a man as well?"

"Well, I broke a window to take the bread and they charged me with that. Twelve francs. For that I was sent to the galleys in Toulon."

She tutted. "Five years! As if a loaf of bread was the same as a slain man. God almighty, how harsh the courts have become! Was it out of hunger, my dear?"

"Yes, Madame," Jean said, hardly believing his luck. "A terrible winter it was. Though, it did not merit--"

"To feed that nephew of yours, or your own son?"

"My nephew," Jean said. "I have no wife or children and my sister had been widowed."

"Well, I am not God and so have no leave to judge," she said. "Nor am I the court--and anyway, your passport is blue, not yellow. If even these strict laws have deemed you only a minor criminal, I will not turn up my nose at you."

"Thank you for being so kind."

"Not kindness, young man--experience! I was a sailor's wife. I have stories that would make your teeth fall out. From what I've seen in these past few minutes, you're as well as a saint compared to my late husband--and I did love him well for all that he did."

So he wrote letters to Denise's twenty-one grandchildren and six adult children with their spouses, and was paid for postage and the time spent writing the letters, which came out to about seven francs total. As old women did, Denise recommended him to all who needed letters or other such paperwork written, and Jean found himself with a source of income. While he knew not if this counted as proper employment, he thought to report it anyway upon the six month deadline of his next parole report, for he earned his bread.

And during the Christmas season there came a great deal of people writing to their loved ones, which happily earned Jean enough money for not only bread but a wardrobe, as well as a soldier doll for Mathieu and a lovely pair of winter boots for Josephine. These gifts he wrapped well to keep the dust away, and then hid underneath a loose floorboard in their flat. It was not only to surprise his family--Josephine would shake her head at the frivolity and say he should have bought himself a proper bed.

One day there came a knock at his door and he opened to see a very beautiful woman, younger than he by some years. She had shining brunette locks and a golden-haired babe in arms. It was the very picture of charm. Then Jean looked closer and saw that while the woman's child was clothed prettily in warm woolen clothes, her own dress and shawl were threadbare, the clothing of a grisette who had fallen on very hard times. She shivered somewhat.

"Oh! M-Monsieur, I beg your pardon," she said. "I seek a man who writes letters for people who cannot, a man called Jean Valjean. Is this where I may find him?"

"You have found him, Madame--for I am Jean Valjean. Please, come in out of the cold." She frowned--of course if Jean saw the difference between the child and mother's clothing was like the difference between day and night, she knew. To remedy her wounded pride Jean said, "For the sake of the child. How very delicate they are at that age! My sister's child is eight years old but he catches cold like a frog catches flies."

She smiled and fussed over the child. "Of course, Monsieur. Dear Cosette, you must be so cold!" Really, this Cosette was sleeping well and did not seem to feel the chill at all. But Jean said nothing of it. He made up the fire and poured some tea without drawing attention to it, as if he was simply being polite. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the mother, whose name he did not know yet, stare at the hearth with her large dark eyes. She took the seat closest to the fire.

"Tea, Madame?"

"Thank you." She took the cup in both hands, and while she did not tell him he was wrong, she did not quite look him in the eye. "Monsieur Valjean, my name is Fantine. And this is Euphrasie, but to her mother she is darling Cosette." She did not say anything about where the father was. "I must write to my family in Montreuil-sur-mer. I have enough to pay for postage as is customary--" Here she withdrew a set of coins. "But what of the letter itself?" She cleared her throat and said, rather louder, "For of course, the fee would be different between a short note and a long letter, not to mention from writer to writer themselves. You are new to the area, Monsieur, and I had no idea as to how much I should bring, so I brought all I could spare."

The truth was, while he had never seen this young woman before in his life, he knew her situation quite clearly without being told. There had been several other pretty young women like Fantine, who had been abandoned by their suitors, some of them at the very altar. Within a year they would have a babe in arms. They came to Jean asking him to their families informing them that they would be coming home. Sometimes they would lie; about a death shortly after a nonexistent wedding, pretend that there had been a wedding invitation which was lost in the post. Sometimes they would simply not speak of the father. And sometimes they were honest and said plainly that they had had a child out of wedlock. Either way, Jean would discreetly alter the letters he wrote to serve the poor young women best, not quite lying but shedding the most merciful light on their situation.

Unfortunately there would often be a response back which told the poor women that they were no longer welcome in the family at all. No matter how delicately he tried to inform them of the sad news, they all knew if there was a refusal. Some rushed from his home wailing and tearing their hair, completely deaf to any attempts Jean made to soothe them. He would find them later in the streets fallen to drink, or gambling, to thievery and prostitution, as if their families' disownment had shattered what remained of their composure and moral character. The children, to his horror, would disappear.

Jean could not hate these suffering women no matter the depths they had sunk, the lies they told, or how much they resisted his efforts at aid--yes, resisted! For the only thing they had to their names were a warped sense of dignity. But his heart would crack and bleed as he watched them devolve slowly, and he knew this winter he might find some of them dead on the street. He hoped that God would look kindly on this Fantine and not let her turn to ruin as so many others had.

"The cost of my writing does indeed vary, Madame," he said gently. He took out his stationary box and lay out a leaf of paper. "Begin dictating."

"But Monsieur--I have not heard your price."

"You have not heard my price because I have not heard your letter."

She sat up straight, reciting the letter she had composed in her mind, and Jean altered it slightly or corrected words as was usual, until they had a short message which read:

_Dearest Mother and Father,_

_How the years have passed since I left home! I am sad to tell you that I have lost my job--through no fault of mine. Here in Paris a seamstress can be found on every corner, and heaven help one who will not sew the highest quality clothing for the lowest wages! The truth is I cannot survive here any longer, and despite my unfortunate circumstances I hope you will be glad to know that I am coming home._

_Your loving daughter,_

_Fantine_

And it was only until Fantine spoke the closing that Jean realized she had not spoken of Cosette. He waited after he perused his letter and said, "I beg your pardon, Madame, but I seem to have made a mistake. There is no mention of Cosette. I shall rewrite it with no cost--"

"Oh, Monsieur Valjean!" Fantine said, laughing brightly. "You have written it perfectly. I did not mention Cosette because--well, it is nearly winter! I cannot have my sweet travel all the way to Montreuil! She is too delicate for the cold!" Cosette slept on in her mother's lap. She was rosy-cheeked but not from cold, and plump as anyone would wish a healthy child to be; in comparison, Fantine's face was beginning to grow hollow and her hands still trembled after half an hour in a warm house. Jean thought that if anyone was too delicate for a week's travel in winter, it was mother, not child. "I have arranged for her to stay at an inn in Montfermeil. When spring has come, then I shall come back and take Cosette home to meet her grandparents at last. Now--now how much for the letter?"

"Six sous," he said, and nothing else. It was, as he had learned, the best way to preserve everyone's pride.

"Good Monsieur, thank you." She counted out six more sous and reached out to take the letter, but Jean shook his head.

"No, I shall post it myself. Worry not, it will reach your family. I would not begrudge you even an hour away from your child when you will spend the winter away."

And at this echo of her own words, Fantine lost the smile she tried so desperately to keep.

\- - -

Most people who charged for writing letters were older retired men, formerly professors or clerks or some other learned profession. All of them charged far too much for Fantine, even for the shortest letter she could compose to alert her family back in Montreuil-sur-mer that she was coming home. And then, of course, they charged for reading the responses.

It was when speaking to another woman who had also been abandoned and was leaving for the south, to Digne, that she learned of Jean Valjean. This was a man who looked kindly on those too poor to afford the usual rates. He lived on the Rue de Gindre with his sister and nephew, so she assumed he was one of those old men who had lost their work due to illness and was supplementing his younger sister's income with writing letters. She thought that he was perhaps fifty-five years of age, with white hair; perhaps a bowed back and spectacles. To her, that was unspeakably old. But either way, she needed a letter written and it was not a long walk to Rue de Gindre, even though she carried Cosette when the girl was too tired to walk any further.

When she knocked on the door, she was greeted by a man not much older than herself--perhaps the writer's nephew. This man stood straight and very tall, with the build and large roughened hands of a man accustomed to hard labor such as farming. If his face had been plain or even ugly, it would have mattered not--he had the kindest eyes Fantine had ever seen and a gentle smile which he bestowed upon her and Cosette, and she thought that even though they were complete strangers to each other, should danger strike at that very moment she could trust him to come to their defense.

As such he was very handsome with curly dark hair. She stammered, "Oh! M-Monsieur, I beg your pardon. I seek a man who writes letters for people who cannot, a man called Jean Valjean. Is this where I may find him?"

He replied softly, noticing that Cosette was asleep in her arms, "You have found him, Madame--for I am Jean Valjean."

So she found herself sitting alone in a room with a man of education, yet one who seemed to have come from humble circumstances and did not speak as if she with her tattered clothing and babe in arms was an affront to his senses. How courteous he was! It was a fountain in the desolate waste which was her life, where before she could only take solace in Cosette's adoration. But this was a stranger and a man. Jean called her Madame throughout their conversation, and she could not bear to correct him. He made tea--she had only drunk water for a year and a half, not all of it clean or warmed--and his home was so comfortable that she was loathe to leave.

"Jean!" came a woman's voice.

"Uncle Jean! We're home!"

The door opened to reveal a woman in her forties or such, herself a tall woman with gray streaks in her dark hair, and she wore a suit which was marked with ink at the cuffs. Clasped in her hand was an eight-year-old boy with the same dark hair as his mother and uncle. While Jean made an effort to hush them, Cosette blinked awake. "Ah, Maman! It's so nice and warm in here."

"Fantine, this is my sister Josephine. Josephine, a client of mine."

"Pleased to meet you, Madame," Josephine said. Fantine could not bring herself to correct the address, and shook hands and nodded politely. Josephine then looked out the window and said, "Well, since it is getting dark, would you like to stay for dinner?"

And while the polite thing would have been to refuse, Fantine to her mortification found herself nodding and saying, "Of course, if you don't mind my child as well." She was so hungry; not only for food, but for simple companionship. Everyone knew of Fantine's great shame. It was rare that people cast a kindly look upon her, and for someone to invite her to dinner--as if she was a civilized person! How could she refuse? Despite the regret that burned in her breast at the truth that she was an unwed mother, she thought to take their kindness as long as it was given.

"Hello!" Cosette said, darting over to the boy. "I'm Cosette! What's your name?"

"Mathieu!"

"Children!" Josephine said. "Play in the living room, and quietly while I prepare your meal."

Fantine stayed a little while to watch them as did Jean, but it became apparent that the children would not get up to mischief under Jean's kind yet attentive eye. She felt strange sitting there at leisure while her hosts were busy, so she followed Josephine into the kitchen to help with dinner.

Her hands were plagued with chilblains and shook still, though she had been out of the cold for half an hour. The very act of chopping onions and carrots for mirepoix was as slow and painful as walking unshod over broken glass. She prayed to God that Josephine would not notice. And to her gratitude, though Josephine finished her vegetables much more quickly, she turned to the pot and briskly sauteed what cuts of meat she had managed to collect at the grocer's.

The smell filled the kitchen--of garlic and onions with butter and pepper and salt--and it nearly drove Fantine mad. She had nourished herself well after birthing so that her milk would feed Cosette properly, but now she was in the process of weaning and as such bought soft foods and little fruits like plums; none of these she tasted herself, unless it was to urge her child to try. For the past year she had subsisted on what she could beg off kind shopkeeps for her meager earnings--on heels of bread so old they were like stone, on offal from the butchers which would have been thrown away, on the dirty root ends of vegetables and discarded cores and stems. She bought no spices to vary her own palate.

And so Fantine had soup and good bread, and she was careful to speak lightly and not gobble it all down as if she was some beggar. Josephine got up and took everyone's plate in hand, and she longed to ask for another helping but resigned herself to getting up to wash the dishes. Then Josephine made a sharp turn to the stove and gave everyone a second helping, and Fantine could not make herself protest. She was only saved from shame at her greed when Josephine said, "Little girls need food to grow into young women, of course." And she patted Cosette on the cheek, and Cosette leaned into the touch and smiled.

Fantine could not help but feel a pang of longing that her own mother would be so kind when she finally brought Cosette over to Montreuil. "Cosette?" she asked. "What do we say to our hosts?"

"Merci, Monsieur et Madame," Cosette piped up.

"Je vous en prie, Madamoiselle," Jean said, and laughed. He had a very pleasant laugh, deep yet not loud or rough. Fantine looked down at her food. She felt ashamed of herself for enjoying this night as much as she was. "Please, child, call me Uncle as Mathieu does. We will be seeing each other again when your mother's family writes back. And speaking of which, Madame--I do not charge for reading responses, only if you write another letter."

"But of course I will write a response," Fantine said. "After being away for five--no--six years!"

A week passed, and upon her dismissal for her last day at work, Fantine rushed home, collected Cosette, and walked to the post office to see if there was a response from her family. Fantine came out of the office with the letter tucked firmly into her apron. She walked faster than usual. With one hand she fussed with her hair and clothes. She told herself it was because Cosette was bouncing along happily as they walked hand in hand down the street; because there was no charge for reading the response as others required; because the autumn wind was messing up her hair. But in her heart she knew she was really only excited to be back in a warm house where she might have supper and be spoken to kindly again.

 _Greed is a sin!_ she admonished herself. Jean Valjean did not know her from any other woman in the world, and moreover he thought her more respectable than she really was. It was silly of her to be so excited about writing a letter. And now that she had cleared her head a little--how silly of her to think she could trust him if she was in danger! He was only being polite as anyone would be. If they did not know they were talking to a fallen woman, that is.

"A letter has come, Maman!" Cosette said. "Are we going to Uncle Jean's house again?"

"Yes, Cosette, but today Mathieu might be at school, so you may have to sit quietly."

As it turned out Mathieu was already home, and the children played with each other in the common room while Jean and Fantine went to the kitchen to read the letter.

He opened the door for her. He pulled a chair out for her. These basic courtesies had not been given to Fantine since before Cosette was born and they struck her heart, not with pain but with that same feeling she had with Felix. And when Jean shut the door behind him and sat across from her at the kitchen table, her cheeks reddened. She chafed her hands as if she was cold and said out loud, "Goodness, it is windy outside! Do you think it will snow, Monsieur?"

"Where Josephine and I came from, Faverolles, if the onion skins were thick then all of the grandmothers would say 'Ah, me--the onions have put on their winter coats! We will have much snow this year.'"

He affected the very same manner of an old woman and Fantine smiled. "What a quaint custom, Monsieur! Now I must peel an onion and see how thick is its coat."

"Oh, I wouldn't judge Paris weather by a Faverolles tradition," Jean said this quite seriously, so that Fantine thought he was indeed chiding her. And then in the same grave tone he went on: "The fashions vary so much that onions may wear feathered hats instead."

It was so droll, such a spot-on observation of the differences between Paris and any other city in France, that for the first time in three years Fantine laughed. Three entire years! She had not had any opportunity to laugh save with Cosette, in the safety of their little room far removed from judgmental passersby on the street. It was a girlish sound which embarrassed her. And a broad smile spread across Jean's face much different from the usual polite one he gave on opening the door, not the cruel smile of mockery but simply sharing in her delight.

"There!" he said. "You have been so grave at times that even your smiles were heavy. But if I have made you laugh with my poor attempt at wit, things cannot be so bad." He took up the folded letter and broke the seal. "Shall I read you the letter, Madame?"

With that one word, any enjoyment she might have gleaned from this visit was crushed. Fantine reminded herself sternly that Jean Valjean was a more decent person than she. He had assumed out of the goodness of his heart that she was a married woman. Should he ever learn of her shame, all this would be lost, as it had been for every person she had met before him. And how she was already lying! Saying she would be back for Cosette in the spring when she still had no thought of how to break the news to her parents. It might very well take much longer for her family to accept a child born out of wedlock.

"Very well, Monsieur."

"Fantine," read Jean Valjean in his soft resonant voice. "I had hoped to hear from you sooner. Did I not tell you that finding work in Paris would be ten times as difficult as here? But either way, do tell us when you will arrive back home so we may prepare a place for you. Your mother, Edith." And he frowned upon reading the closing. "If you'll forgive my opinion, that seems quite cold."

He really was so kind. Fantine made the usual excuse for her family. "Oh--I am the youngest of two sisters and three brothers. My mother and father speak briefly to us all. But they mean no coldness! It comes only from having one's attention divided five ways. Hardly the way your sister and nephew speak to each other."

"Well, you know your family best." He folded the letter and took out a fresh sheet of parchment. "I have no children nor wife myself, so I cannot judge. What shall I write for you in response, Madame?"

She composed a quick response to her family which Jean assured would be sent in the post before the office closed.

"If you need any help with the trip, Madame," Jean began, but she shook her head.

"I know how best to pack all my things, and none of my luggage is so heavy that I cannot lift it." If all went well, she would have no luggage; but that was not any of his business. "Anyway, Cosette's outfit will remain with her at the Thénardier's inn, and I have paid fifty-seven francs for the winter's care in advance, so everything is all in order. Thank you, kind sir! I shall recommend you to all who need writing done before I leave."

"And you will come to bid farewell, also?"

What prompted Jean to say this was unfathomable. He was grave now. Why would he be? To his knowledge she was simply a respectable woman fallen on hard times, going to see her family and then return for her child after winter. They had only known each other a few days. Yes, he had made her laugh and Fantine sorely wished to spend another moment in this gracious man's company.

But another day meant more danger of Fantine's countless lies being discovered. Of his gentle kindness turning to disgust. Oh, perhaps he would be polite anyway, but at a distance. He might greet her if they passed by but never invite her over or offer a letter. She could not bear the thought. She made up her mind in an instant. One more lie, and then the whole business would be done. She could devote her life to becoming a respectable person, atoning for her sin.

"Of course I will bid you farewell!" she told him. To this Jean Valjean smiled, a different one, as if to hear her refuse would have caused him some sort of grief.

It haunted her.

All throughout the next three days which she spent selling furniture, houseware, everything which was not Cosette's, to gain the fifty-seven francs she had agreed upon for the Thénardiers and more for the trip to Montreuil, she thought of that last smile Jean gave. And she tried her best not to think of it, but to her dismay Cosette tugged on her sleeve as she was packing an outfit. "Maman! Will we say goodbye to the Gauthiers before we go?"

"No, darling," Fantine said. "We will miss the carriage to Montfermeil!"

For she would not make her daughter walk a step in the cold autumn air. Though in truth she had plenty of time to say farewells, she redoubled her efforts to pack quickly and organize all their food. At Montfermeil she left the trunk and the fifty-seven francs and told the Thénardier couple all of Cosette's favourite foods. For Cosette, she said she would send a gift for Christmas and her birthday and she loved her very much.

The last she saw of her daughter was Cosette playing with Éponine, the cheerfully dressed brunette who had so quickly caught her attention. She smiled and waved one last time, and hurried along to the main road. There were many carriages, but no one else was on foot as she was. Without even Cosette for companionship, the weight of her life overwhelmed her. She clutched her threadbare shawl around her and felt the cold against her skin, and it was too much.

She was truly alone now. It would be five more days before she reached Montreuil-sur-mer and saw any face at all, much less a familiar one. She had thirty francs left to her after paying for Cosette's lodging, which would have sufficed for a carriage in summer, but fares were higher in winter for drivers knew people would pay to keep from walking in the cold. If she could not find an inn she would have to walk at night and sleep in the daytime, for fear of freezing to death.

She wished she had said goodbye to Jean Valjean. She wished her daughter was with her.

Fantine leaned against a tree on the lane and burst into tears. A neighbor of the Thénardiers passed her by, and came back with the remark, "I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough to rend your heart."

Miles away, it was nightfall in Paris and a light snow dusted the streets. Jean stood at the steps, searching for Fantine and Cosette's familiar figures. But none approached their door. And when the street was empty, he shut the door at last with a sigh.


	3. Of Cosette's peril and her rescue

**Montfermeil, 1819**

After Christmas, Jean was greeted by someone from the post office who stated that there was a parcel awaiting him. As the only people who would give him a present lived in the same flat, and had already given him gifts--a starched cravat from Josephine--Jean tentatively went to the post office expecting some missive from the courts. But the bundle wrapped up in brown paper and tied with twine did not have an official police seal, so he quelled his fear and turned to the letter on top of it in unfamiliar script.

It was from Fantine. The package had new leather shoes and a blanket in the post. In the accompanying letter she asked if Jean would find someone to take them to Cosette in Montfermeil and wish her a belated Christmas, as she had tried to deliver another package but had been told that they were lost in the mail.

Jean's relief--and surprise--was immediate. He had not heard anything from Fantine or Cosette and after not seeing them for a farewell on the eve of their journey, he had thought something might have happened to them. But as he had no right to demand her presence and moreover he knew not where she had lived in Paris or which route she was taking, he had assumed she simply forgot. This seemed to lend credence to the notion.

Jean decided, as he was still unemployed, to deliver the package to Montfermeil himself and see how Cosette was faring. As it was only four hours's walk from Rue de Gindre, he told his sister as she was leaving for the print shop that after walking Mathieu to school, he would be taking a day trip to the inn where Cosette was lodged, and he would be back by nightfall. Josephine cautioned that it would be snowing much more heavily in Montfermeil as it was out of the main city near a wood, and Jean put on his green coat and hat to satisfy his sister, as well as the cravat, and he tucked some spare francs into his pocket in case he wanted a carriage on the way back.

At word of Cosette, Mathieu begged to take leave off school for one day more, and while Jean was touched at how quickly he thought of Cosette as a friend, he refused. He knew not if he could find a carriage of reasonable fare for both of them--Mathieu had done well on their long trip from Toulon, but it was winter now and Jean would not make a child walk in the snow no matter how warmly dressed they were.

When he reached the inn, his thoughts became troubled.

It was by a wooded area, and not far from the main road into Paris, so there were many people and carriages darting in and out of the courtyard. Business was certainly doing well if the full dining room was any means to measure success. Even after Christmas, it was so crowded that he had to squeeze through the door, and once in there was hardly any room to breathe. It simply was not the sort of inn that Jean would have left his nephew in for any amount of time without Josephine or himself to watch, and here Fantine had left her child--not half Mathieu's age!--for the entire winter. Numerous men reeking of drink were lying senseless on the floor, clutching half-dressed women or empty tankards. Empty plates were abandoned on tables, crusted with the remnants of food that had been eaten hours ago. A flash of movement under a table looked very suspiciously like a rat.

Jean thought to himself that he would not have paid near sixty francs for anything less than six months, and that would be if he felt generous. There were cleaner, quieter inns that charged much less for a season's stay.

He searched the chaos for the innkeeper and found him at the desk, as was his wife. They were thoroughly occupied in conversation with a patron checking out of the inn. Monsieur Thénardier was dressed very well, if somewhat garishly; he waved his arms often and there were many rings glinting on his fingers that Jean could see even from this distance. Madame Thénardier likewise had a coiffure of winter berries in her hair, laughing merrily beside her husband. She gave the patron's child a pat on the cheek.

So Jean thought perhaps his judgment had been too severe. Fantine doted on her child, he reminded himself. It was possible the mother herself had insisted, to buy the best of food and a quiet room. Very quiet, Jean mused, looking up at the ceiling. As there would be no use approaching until the innkeeper was finished with business, and Jean did not trust the stained and splintered benches nor the inhabitants, he quit the dining room for the courtyard.

The smell of fresh snow cleared his nose immediately and the silence was as welcome as a friend. He only realised as he relaxed that he had been reminded too much of Toulon to be comfortable. The crowdedness, the stench and filth and noise. The only difference was that everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves here. Jean decided he had grown too accustomed to the solitude at home. They were cramped to be sure, but while lacking employment he had grown used to keeping everything clean and orderly and only had the occasional visitor who wanted a letter written until Josephine and Mathieu came home. And even so, they were not a very loud family. The only loud noise came from the street, or Mathieu playing marbles with his schoolfriends outside.

A soft sniffle alerted him. Jean looked about for the source and found a little girl sitting on an apple crate, wiping her dirty face with her sleeve. Her hair of indeterminate color was loose and scraggly, and her clothes were nothing more than rags. A little street urchin, most like--she was dreadfully thin.

His heart had already broken; he could not stand to see children cry and he had become known throughout the neighborhood as 'Uncle Jean' for approaching scared or sad-looking children and either returning them to safety or giving them bread, particularly on Sundays. He cleared his throat, and when the child started and made as if to run away, he smiled gently and said, "Do not be afraid of me, little one. I only wished to know why you were crying."

"It's nothing, m'sieur, except I'm so hungry." She sniffled, and then looked up at him. "Have we met before?"

"I'm afraid I don't recognize you," Jean said. "But I can aid your hunger well enough. Here--take it." He withdrew a large piece of bread and cheese from his bag and tore it into chunks, then pulled up another crate and sat next to her.

She took one piece of bread and of cheese, eating them timidly, then stopped and looked around as if she was afraid of something.

Jean waited, but as she did not seem to be taking ill from the food itself and no one seemed to take notice of them, he smiled and told her, "Go on, dear girl. I have my own bread at home." And if someone was angry with him, he would defend the girl for eating what seemed to be her only good meal in days. It was his bread, after all.

"Oh, thank you, m'sieur!"

She fell onto the pieces with wild abandon this time and he felt compelled to say, "Only slow down a little so you don't choke!" She complied and ate more slowly. When she finished and gave a large sigh of relief, patting her belly, Jean decided he could continue his duty without worrying too much about this poor creature. "Now, I have a question for you. This is the Thénardier inn, yes?"

"Yes, m'sieur."

Though his misgivings grew, Jean smiled. "Very well! Would you tell me where I can find Fantine's child in the care of the innkeepers? A little girl about your age with yellow hair. Her name is Euphrasie, but most call her Cosette."

The girl started. "That's me, sir. I'm called Cosette." She took a lock of her hair and rubbed it a bit. "My hair is yellow, but it's so dirty now that most people don't notice."

"Cosette!" He looked at her, and to his utter bewilderment a close look at her face revealed Fantine's eyes, blue rather than brown. "Oh Cosette! Can it be?" He could have wept, seeing how changed she was from the rosy-cheeked girl at his home not a month ago. "Then you're right to find me familiar, dear girl--I am Jean Valjean, who wrote your mother's letters for her."

"Yes, I remember now! Uncle Jean! Your house was so warm and Maman smiled so much." Cosette looked up at him. "Is something wrong? Why did Maman send you here instead of coming back herself? She said she would come back..."

Jean thought about telling her that Fantine had not sent for him, but he was simply delivering Christmas presents. But upon looking at her he realized that these clothes were not simply old and dirty, but replaced entirely with stuff of inferior make. Her feet were bare of both shoes and stockings. He had a strong feeling that the former presents had made their way to the inn, but were sold before Cosette could even see them. He did not doubt that these presents would be taken away as soon as he left.

He made up his mind in an instant. He would attend confession for lying. "Your mother is still in Montreuil. She sends presents and her love, and I am taking you home with me for Christmas."

And Cosette's eyes lit up like stars in the night, until a harsh voice barked, "Girl! Stop sitting about!" It was a woman's voice, one that struck the same fear into Cosette as she had before. Madame Thénardier arrived, scowling. She had a broom in hand and Jean feared what she would do with it.

He put his hand on Cosette's shoulder to keep her from scurrying away. "Wait a moment, Cosette."

The woman's manner changed instantly upon seeing him, becoming the gracious hostess he had seen only a few moments before. "Oh, pardon, Monsieur! That's the help, she isn't allowed to talk to customers... Cosette! Go away from the gentleman now. Monsieur Thénardier! We have a guest here--"

"As a matter of fact--" Jean interrupted as the innkeeper appeared. "I am here on Cosette's behalf, so please allow her to remain here. I am a friend of her mother Fantine."

"Whatever could you want with her?" Thénardier asked. "Fantine is away at the moment and the child's in our care."

Jean stood up to his full height and crossed his arms. He knew he could look fearsome, particularly when he was filled with anger as he was now--but he kept his face and voice neutral, if firm, for he did not want to frighten Cosette. "Cosette is to come home for Christmas rather than staying here." He did not say which home, nor that this was on his own behest and not that of Fantine.

"Well..." The innkeeper seemed intimidated. He begged leave to step away with his wife, and they had a hushed conversation which Jean attempted not to listen to. Yet across the snowy courtyard, their voices carried anyway, and he heard snatches of it which turned his stomach.

"Suppose this man lies and Fantine asks where her child has gone?"

"What does it matter? If he speaks true, the brat will be out of our hair and back with her mother. If he speaks false, we can say he stole her away in the night so we are not at fault. She gave us fifty-seven francs for six months and it's only been one."

Six months! Jean thought. How strange; it was the very same thought he'd had, and while he'd dismissed it as a product of his own thriftiness--here they were, being confirmed. He wondered why Fantine would lie about how long her child would be away. But perhaps she had been ashamed of it. She had not corrected him when he called her Madame.

"So let him take her!" the Madame said. "She does nothing besides eat and cry for her mother."

"Why, yes, that is a way of seeing it." The innkeeper stepped away from his wife and cleared his throat. "Very well, sir, if you know Fantine and she's to go home to Montreuil, we will give little Colette to your care."

"Cosette," his spouse corrected him.

Jean's blood boiled in his veins, but for the sake of Cosette he did not show it. "Come, Cosette." He took her hand. Just to confirm his suspicions about her attire being sold, he said mildly, "Let's put on your shoes and coat before we leave. Monsieur Thénardier, if you would show us to her room for her outfit? Fantine said she had left one. I shall take it now."

The Thénardiers coughed and looked at a loss. Before they could recover, Cosette piped up with the honesty of children, "I don't have any shoes, Uncle Jean. Madame sold them."

Said Madame hissed. Cosette shrunk into his side.

"Sold them--in order to afford medicines for her care, of course!" Thénardier said. "For you see, she has been so terribly ill--"

"Never mind that!" Jean said. "We shall make a stop to a doctor and Cosette's health will be well taken care of. Thank you both." And before they could protest--or worse, insist on payment for those medicines he was sure did not exist--Jean hoisted the girl into the crook of his arm and started walking.

"Goodbye, Courgette!" said Monsieur Thénardier.

"Cosette!" Madame Thénardier called loudly over her husband.

Jean ignored them. It was a half-hour to a more reputable inn, where he paid the innkeeper's wife to give Cosette a bath and wash her clothes, as well as feed her some dinner. The shoes Fantine had sent for Christmas, to his relief and Cosette's delight, fit perfectly with plenty of room for growth. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders as a makeshift shawl; but she still had no coat, so he left to hunt one down.

Unfortunately, the shops were all sold out for the winter, so when the bath was done and her clothes dried out by a fire, he stepped out into the street with Cosette, who looked a bit less the pauper than she had a few hours ago, and sought a carriage. But everyone who had traveled out of town was now coming back and few wanted to walk even a mile at this hour. There were very few carriages left, and every one of them insisted on a fare of at least two francs.

"Hullo, driver!" Jean called to the last carriage on the street, voice hoarse. He was carrying Cosette now, who was asleep against his shoulder. "How much for us both to 44 Rue de Gindre in Paris?"

"Evening, monsieur. For the two of you it's a franc and eight--bargain deal! You won't find any lower for miles about."

This was indeed better than the other carriages. Still, Jean had but one franc in his pocket so it mattered not. He sighed. He knew he could walk the four hours even with Cosette, who was not heavy, but he would have to sleep for three days to regain his usual vigor after such a tiresome journey--and distressful. "If you will take us half the way, then."

The driver hopped down from the seat and opened the door. Jean gave his sole franc and received six sous back and as carefully as possible settled down in the carriage with Cosette on his lap. He covered her with his green woolen coat. Jean nodded off several times, but roused at each bump in the road. Cosette remained asleep even when the carriage stopped entirely. He picked her up and stepped outside, wearily preparing to walk two hours more--only to find himself just in front of the flat on Rue de Gindre.

"Monsieur--please, let me run up and get the sous I lack to pay the entire fare," Jean said. "It will take only a moment--"

"No, sir, keep your money," the driver said. "I live not far from here and you were the only customer in several hours. I thought with Christmas so near behind us and your poor child asleep, I might as well take you all the way home for half the charge."

Jean smiled. It was too late for him to correct the driver that this was not his child. "God bless you, Monsieur. What is your name that I may recommend you to all who need a driver?"

"Jacques," the man responded, and tipped his hat. "Good night to you." He stepped off to feed his weary black horse and said softly, "Come, my pretty one--only a little longer till you and I are home."

\- - -

He knocked on the door as he did not want to wake Cosette by setting her down and rummaging for his keys. When Josephine answered she was taken aback by the child in his arms, but to her credit she waited until Jean tucked her into his own bed. They shut the door firmly, for Mathieu was sleeping as well; then Josephine rounded on him.

"Jean Valjean!" she scolded him. "Haven't I told you a thousand times, I know how you feel--but leave it at feeding them! The house is already bursting to the seams--"

"Josephine, please!" Jean interrupted. "This is Cosette, Fantine's daughter. You saw her but a month ago when I wrote letters for them."

"Cosette?" Josephine looked at the door, as if she was going to peer through it and take a second look. "That poor creature is the very same Cosette?"

"Yes. Fantine sorely misjudged the character of the innkeepers who said they would care for her during the winter. If care is what it can be called!"

So he told her the sad story of Cosette's stay at the Thénardier's inn, and at the end Josephine sighed. "I'd not leave her either if even half of what you say is true. Poor Fantine! Her heart will break to pieces! Did she not pay fifty francs in advance for Cosette's care? Who knows where that money has gone! Not to Cosette, that's for sure."

"Nearly sixty; and she won't be getting a sous back," Jean said. "I would stake my life on it that those terrible people spent it already. Fantine left a trunk with an outfit for Cosette as well, and they're all gone! Sold or bartered off--even the trunk! She was barefoot in the snow when I found her."

"Whatever you do for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine..." Josephine sighed. "Very well. We will keep Cosette for now. But promise me, Jean, that you will write Fantine and tell her what happened."

"I will go to the post office first thing in the morning."

And this is what he wrote:

_Fantine -_

_I write to you with the most urgency. Send not another sous to the Thénardiers! I went to deliver your Christmas present to Cosette and found her greatly neglected, her clothing all sold, and all your hard-won francs squandered on other debts. If there was a choice between that wretched place and a pack of wolves, I would choose the wolves! Worry not, Cosette is now in my care for the moment. We shall speak of compensation later when Cosette is well again._

_Jean Valjean_

Cosette was truly too delicate for travel now. She had lost a great deal of weight in her disastrous stay at the inn; when Josephine examined the girl after a week, she said the child would not be able to travel at least until summer, and the weather would be fair besides. Jean wrote to Fantine saying so, but again reassured her that she need not to worry about compensation until the danger was past and they could write at leisure.

The next letter which came in the post was stained with tears, and had within it ten francs. Fantine explained that she was very grateful to his waiving the charge for Cosette's care, but as she had been employed as a factory worker for the past month, she could and would spare the money out of gratitude. Jean hoped that it was part of her savings, what little she had left from the Thénardiers' robbery. But her first visit wore uneasily on him, as had the Thénardiers' mention of Cosette staying for six months when they thought he could not hear. Perhaps she would not have lied about getting a job, but it might not pay as well as she made it seem.

Jean wrote in his next letter that Fantine need not send any more than seven francs a month, which was what she agreed upon with the Thénardiers, and as she had already sent ten for the first month, January's charge was four francs. When four francs came at January's end, Jean relaxed somewhat. It must have been the shock of hearing that her daughter had been treated as a slave--and the shock of losing nearly sixty francs, though of course neither of them mentioned it in the letters. It hung between the words they wrote to each other, like a great cloud weighted with rain.

With the money Josephine bought good serviceable clothes for Cosette, and a trundle bed which just barely fit in the room which now held four people, and combs and other such necessaries, as well as the food necessary for rebuilding Cosette's strength. The outfit wasn't at all like the fine silken and woolen things Fantine had saved for her daughter, and the food not rich, but at least Cosette was warm and fed. At four years old she was a bit too young for the school Mathieu attended, so Jean delayed his search for employment to care for her in the first month. Truthfully, it was a bit of a relief to step away from the discouraging task.

At Josephine's advice, Jean did not feed Cosette meals of a regular size lest her shrunken stomach rebel, but six smaller meals a day. He cooked little bowls of porridge twice in the morning, each with a cup of milk--and after a week or so, he cracked an egg on top to poach it. A large pot of soup lay simmering on the hearth throughout the rest of the day, for four meals.

Cosette ate every bite of the porridge in a flash, even scraping the bowl with her spoon, and then held her bowl out again. "Uncle Jean, I'm still hungry."

"I will give you a piece of toast and cheese," Jean said, "But then you must rest for a few hours. Your stomach is too weak to hold as much food as you like and you will get sick. In a little while, I will give you another bowl of porridge."

"Do you promise?" Cosette asked. "Only a few hours?"

"Yes. You may feel free to remind me if I forget--and I promise I will try not to."

He took up the small tongs to hold a slice of bread in the fire, and when it was warmed enough he set a hunk of cheese on it and let it melt a bit. Cosette watched so intently he thought she might have snatched it from the flame, but when it was done the porridge seemed to have settled in her stomach. That was why he had offered toast instead of plain bread, that she might wait a little. She did eat this more slowly, and within a few minutes she was nodding with drowsiness. Jean picked her up and put her to bed. She slept so deeply that Jean found her still in the exact same pose that she'd fallen asleep in, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

She opened her eyes and yawned. "Maman?"

"Not your mother, sadly--but it's time for your next meal, dear Cosette."

She sprang up immediately, but the motion took too much out of her and she stumbled as she got out of bed.

Whenever he had someone over for a letter, Jean at first put Cosette to bed and left a warm meal at her bedside when it was time. Since all Cosette did the first few weeks was sleep and wake up hungry and gobble down her food, she was hardly in the way. Sometimes Jean would see a flash of golden hair as Cosette peeped out of the bedroom door, and if he had a client over she would shut the door and dart back into bed. Jean sorely hated the Thénardiers every time he saw her flinch, or ask pityingly for more food despite how many times he told her she must be careful not to overeat.

When her energy stopped flagging so quickly, she began to leave the room and explore the flat, and that was when Josephine deemed she could eat regular meals, though still lighter than before. Jean bought a doll with a little of Fantine's money and let her play quietly in the living room rather than wander. It was not the most magnificent doll, but she did adore it and with a tiny brush smoothed its hair--dark, like her mother's--or fussed with its clothes, or simply held it and rocked side to side in a chair. She sang a lullaby of sorts in her sweet child's voice, the same tune each time, which made Jean think Fantine had sung it to her. He caught something of the words--a castle on a cloud and other fanciful things.

"I hope you will pardon the presence of little Cosette," Jean told one client as Cosette stayed in the living room. "She has been ill of late and I do not enjoy letting her out of my sight."

"Not at all," the client said. "Is this your daughter?"

"No, not mine but the child of a friend. I watch over her while her mother works."

"Hello!" Cosette said briefly, then resumed braiding her doll's hair. Jean took it as a glad sign that she was no longer fearful of strangers and her cheerfulness had returned.

Cosette played quietly with her doll at first, and then Jean asked his client to dictate. The child looked up, and upon seeing Jean write Cosette tucked her doll into an arm and approached the table. Her eyes were huge and she came right up to the edge of his seat, standing on the tips of her toes to better observe. As she did not get in the way, Jean smiled at her to let her know she was welcome, and only put a finger to his lips to ensure her silence.

When the client had gone and Jean was holding sealing wax over a candle waiting for it to soften, Cosette burst into life.

"Uncle Jean, how do you make words appear? Do you need someone to speak the words or can you write a letter on your own? What is the wax for?"

He took out an old piece of parchment with a letter he had set aside due to the number of mistakes, and performed a few of the simplest drills on the back so that she might mimic it. She concentrated so hard that the tip of her tongue poked out of her mouth. "Does Mathieu learn this at school?" she asked, after a few childish attempts at the straight lines and ovals.

"Yes, he does." He smiled. "You are a bit young for Mathieu's school, but I'll write to your mother when your sixth birthday has past. And when is that?"

"In spring! March the twentieth!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made fun of Hugh Jackman for not being aged up enough, and then I looked at some clips of Liam Neeson in the 1998 non-musical version and they didn't even bother graying his hair! He was actually 46, but with those vibrant chestnut locks he doesn't look a day over thirty-five. And even more unrealistic was how they called Uma Thurman hideous.
> 
> I'm not complaining about Fantine and Cosette having the wrong hair colors when Jean is supposed to have white hair, lmfao.
> 
> March 20th is my birthday, but also the first day of spring. I just thought it'd be fitting for Cosette.


	4. Of the Orangerie, the house, and the forty francs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've tried to do research on the Orangerie, it's all tourist stuff!!! I haven't for the life of me been able to find out what extent it was neglected to in the time period of Les Miserables. But honestly, since Hugo made Jean a galley slave decades after that practice was stopped in Toulon, I can do whatever I want. The Tuileries palace was basically a revolving door for aristocracy, revolutionaries, and then eventually burned to the ground, so I'm betting the gardens weren't a top priority for a long time.
> 
> For the record, Grenelle was originally a separate agricultural village, but later it was annexed into Paris and now is a cute, quiet little suburb in the 15th arrondissement. I did more research than was necessary to learn this. Now the secret FBI agent assigned to read my Google history will think I'm moving to France.

**Paris, 1819**

With spring came Cosette's fifth birthday. Josephine wrote to Fantine herself at times, mentioning how well the child was faring, and received utter gratitude and little gifts such as ribbons or handkerchiefs. Cosette adored them all, and before long Jean whittled her a little wooden box for tokens from her mother. There also came more business besides letter-writing. Yet while Jean sought and found jobs, tilling and planting only lasted so long even though he took every one he could get. They were fewer and farther between in the urban city he now lived in.

Nearing summer he saw a notice at the Luxembourg asking for any who knew of gardening or farming to inquire about a job elsewhere which would last the year through. He went in with his passport bleu, fearing that he would be turned away by the royal gardens.

But the clerk seemed not to mind it after reading the charges and the note that he was fit for employment. Jean was asked the usual matters--of his experience with greenery, what he had been doing since he left prison, if he attended church every Sunday, and how he had learned of the position. When he told them of his experience as a tree-pruner in Faverolles before prison, that he had been caring for a friend's ailing child, that he attended the Église Saint-Joseph-des-Carmes, and that he had read the notice in front, the clerk looked pleased and gave him a slip of paper with the address of the Orangerie where he was to report in a week or so.

He and a group of others were set to the task of restoring the Orangerie, which was across the Seine in the gardens of the Tuileries palace. As he had taken care of fruit trees before, he thought it would be a simple task. Moreover it was a job which they assured would last the year through if he was willing, for the Orangerie was set in a greenhouse with a glass wall facing the Seine and a brick wall on the opposite side to conserve heat. Because of this, Jean had assumed nothing out of the ordinary--perhaps more branches to prune than usual, a lot of leaves to rake off the ground, but otherwise a sheltered orchard which had been maintained for practicality and was now being shaped for attractiveness.

Then he arrived with the crew of ten other gardeners and saw the truth.

This orchard had been as neglected as Cosette had been by the Thénardiers. Though the trees themselves were hale, they had grown wild and unruly, reverting back to bushes. The pathways were buried in years and years of fallen leaves and branches and rotted fruit. Without any way of venting the fumes besides through the open doors, and the increased heat and humidity quickening the rot of any fruit, the whole place stunk of decay. Not only of fruit, but of creatures who had snuck in and been unable to escape before dying. It was a far cry from the polished and flourishing gardens that the public strolled through not an hour's walk across the Seine.

There was a moment of silence as the ten of them peered through the glass wall.

"We've been had!" one of his fellows cried, throwing his hat on the ground. "Why would a palace garden take me on for such a high wage, my wife asked--and she was right! Forty-five francs each month for the entire summer and twenty for autumn or winter? Not high enough when this task will be finished on Judgment Day!"

He stormed out, and with him other men and women who were discouraged.

After Jean's shock at the state of the Orangerie had faded, he found he could not leave. While he had his job of writing letters, and enjoyed it greatly when there was happy news to be shared, it was not steady employment in summer when people traveled more. And even in winter, he could not bear to demand higher fees from his regular clients of poor unlearned men and women. It bought his bread, and in winter he had saved up enough to think of searching for room and board outside of his sister's home, but taking on Cosette had his savings diminished by half. And while he begrudged nothing to the poor girl, the fact was his savings grew back slowly.

A full six months he'd spent searching for other work, and now he was left with this task which, while enormous, promised actual wealth rather than simply scraping by. Within a year, with both of his jobs compensating for each other's slower seasons, he could buy a house--and one for his sister, that they'd never worry about lodging again.

"I do wish they had told us the true scope of the work to be done," he said to the remaining workers. Out of ten there were now only Jean himself, two women, and one other man. "But even if the rest of you follow them so I am the only one left, I will not depart. This is my first proper job in half a year, and I've two children to feed at home."

"Two? I would pray to God for only two!" one woman asked, making everyone laugh. "Bread must be bought for my five little loves, and my husband has lost a leg, so I must work in his place. I'll not shy away from this, Monsieur."

"Come, then," Jean said. "Let's all shake hands and introduce ourselves before we begin the battle."

All of four of them came from a farming background or some other such work as Jean did, but as they worked and conversed, he found that they were also outcasts of a sort.

Donatelle had become the breadwinner for her family after her husband became ill, and she had been arrested for graverobbing, specifically of dead people's teeth. Like Jean she had spent five years in prison before being let out on parole, but as she had trespassed on church property, she still had her passport jaune and her terms were much stricter than Jean's, needing to report every month. While Jean himself was discomforted at first, he made a point of reminding himself that the dead were, after all, dead and no longer in use of their bodies, while he had stolen bread which would otherwise have gone to the living.

She was a plump, merry woman in a macabre fashion and often jested about her history. She was the first to volunteer for hauling the dead animals away. The first few times she knelt to open the dessicated jaws and peer into their mouths, tilting them this way and that as if she was inspecting a new pair of shoes, and then she shook her head. "I'll not be pulling teeth this time--for they're too small to sell!"

Ghislainie had sold her body when she was younger, and her hair whenever it grew long enough. It was a unique shade of copper-red, and now grown out past her ears. Her skin as well was a striking shade of dark brown and she seemed of Moorish descent. While she'd spent no time in prison, she was unwed with three boys of clearly different fathers--one pale with brown hair, one dark with brown hair, and one with her own red locks. For much of her life she had lived on the streets in the south of France. Then she was taken in by the Bishop Bienvenue of Digne and there learned to care for the medicine gardens before he died and she moved north for a fresh start. She recalled the lavender fields with great serenity.

Maximilien was the odd one out, a twenty-six year old man with no children either of his own or in his care. What he had been imprisoned for affected him to the point of tears when he spoke of it--a romance gone terribly wrong, his lover betraying him by pressing charges of seduction when they were discovered--to escape charges of adultery. In fact Maximilien had not known his lover was married and tried to plead his case as such, but unfortunately spent ten years in prison for it. He rarely spoke of it again, nor of what other punishments he endured besides spending time in prison, and none of them asked.

For the first week or so, the foreman initially stayed the entire day, but they were all shown to work hard and consistently, he stayed only a few hours at the beginning to let in a crew of temporary workers to aid with the continuous task of clearing the ground. He left a gatekey to Jean, who became the organizer of both the main crew and training newcomers.

As they were left to their own devices, Jean decided that once the dead animals and the worst of the branches and roots and other dangerous debris were cleared away, that he would take Cosette with him to the gardens rather than leave her at home for the whole day. As he was granted this provided she did not interfere, he also took Mathieu when school was released for the summer. Ghislainie and Donatelle also brought their youngest children. They all gave strict instructions to stay away from where the dangerous work was and not to get their clothes torn or too dirty.

"Oh, such a sweet child!" Ghislainie cried upon seeing Cosette. She tugged at the braids. "What pretty hair! What pretty locks you've got there. I love my boys, but I do wish I had a girl."

"Your hair is red!" Cosette exclaimed. "I did not know people could have red hair!"

"This is Cosette," Jean said. "She is not mine, but in my care at the moment."

Cosette came to enjoy climbing trees to pick fruits, which Jean only discovered after turning around to find her sitting in the crook of an orange tree. "Cosette!" he cried. "Get down from there!" With his height he climbed up to where she was in an instant and caught her in one arm. Cosette protested, but he held firmly until they were both on the ground.

Donatelle and Ghislainie laughed at his worry. "She's naught but a child, Jean!" Ghislainie told him. "I dare say she's fit to go home to her mother if she's climbing trees like any child would."

"Like a little lark in a tree!" Donatelle said. "God knows that I climbed as high when I was her age."

Maximilien no longer desired to wed or have children at all, and devoted most of his time to the Luxembourg Orangerie and his apprenticeship to a cobbler, but he adored the others' children and at the end of the day would often comb and rebraid the girls' mussed-up locks or straighten the boys' cravats. This time he was as fretful as Jean and rushed to her, saying, "Oh, Cosette! You have frightened us so. Pray tell us you will not climb without telling one of us first so that we may watch you."

"But I didn't climb so very high," Cosette grumbled. "You all go even higher and you don't ask anyone to watch--and you all carry things to chop off the branches or baskets for fruit. I don't carry things!"

Ghislainie did frown at that and said, "But my dear little lark, we are all grown up and we have ropes to stop us falling."

"May I have a rope, then?"

"No, for you are still a child," Jean said, and that was the end of it.

This had happened because the workers and their children alike were allowed to gather as many fruits as they wished in-between harvest seasons, since the Orangerie would not be opened to the public until it was presentable and fallen fruits would only contribute to the rotted mast present on the grounds. The Orangerie had not only oranges and lemons, but pomegranates and exotic dates from Egypt. Jean sometimes took entire baskets home for drying and preserving--or giving away to street urchins--as well as flowers for Josephine in a little basket held tenderly by Cosette.

The womenfolk adored the smell of the citrus flowers and leaves and Josephine pressed them between her books or distilled the essence for perfume. Eventually she asked him for some cuttings rather than flowers so she could enjoy them fresh from the tree.

"You scold me for taking home a child, then ask me to bring you trees!" Jean said once, affecting more anger than he really felt. "Trees, Josephine! Did you not say the house was bursting at the seams!"

Josephine said, "Trees only desire a little rain and sunshine, brother, and those are no cost to us, so I am still in the right." And they laughed and embraced each other.

\- - -

During the summer Jean spent his precious little spare time walking across the Pont Louis bridge with Cosette and Mathieu. There was a bakery which sold tiny cakes and treats which he sometimes bought for Cosette (not right after the tree incident); here was a tanner who Maximilien visited for shoe leather; there was the clothing store Josephine visited for the childrens' attire now and then, trading in the old clothes to offset some of the cost of the new.

Often Mathieu begged to look into the toy shop where Jean had gotten Cosette's doll. He was a terrible player of any game and forever losing his marbles to his schoolmates, yet determined to win them back despite his luck.

While cooking dinner one day, and Mathieu was outside playing marbles with a brand new bag, Josephine sighed heavily and said, "We must never let Mathieu play cards or dice. This is the last time I let him wheedle me into buying more marbles, I swear."

Jean laughed. "Not that you would approve even if he was a good player, of course."

"Of course! But it would be different if his marbles did not disappear like birds flee cats."

"Mathieu says his schoolmates cheat," Cosette told them.

"Then perhaps he should find others to play with--" Josephine reached for some spices, and with her arm knocked a wooden spoon out of the pan.

Cosette ran over to pick it up, and a seam ripped on her dress as she knelt down to reach under the stove. "Aunt Josephine! I ripped my dress!"

Jean looked over at his sister, who shrugged, hands full with her cooking. He put down the vegetables and wiped his hands with a towel. "I'll have a look at it." One of the pintucks at the side had come loose. Rather than sew it back up, Jean had Cosette change into her nightgown and hunted down the tiny embroidery scissors so he could let out a few of the other seams.

"You are not so little now, my pretty lark," he said at dinner. "I had to open a few of the tucks."

"Goodness, already? You're growing like a weed!" Josephine said. Cosette scrunched up her face, unsure of how to take the statement. "I say that in a good way, Cosette. You'll be back to your mother very soon now."

"Oh!" Cosette shrieked with joy. "It has been so long! I miss Maman so! When, Aunt Josephine, when will you write to her?"

"As soon as possible. But first let me see how your shoes fit." Cosette ran to the room and brought out her shoes. They were creased well and stained with dirt, for indoor orchards were just as dirty as outdoor ones. "Well, I will write to her, but I don't like sending you home to your mother only to have her buy new shoes. She'll think us stingy. Jean--who is that cobbler friend of yours?"

"Maximilien," Jean told her. "Say the word and it will be done. I did some work on his roof once and he said he would make new shoes for the children at half price, so only two francs."

\- - -

One morning, Josephine was given leave from the printshop after they ran out of ink due to a shipment error, and she looked after the children while Jean went to work. Without anyone to mind besides himself after the day was done, Jean walked farther than usual and after crossing the bridge turned left instead of right. He wandered his way down long lanes dappled with shadow from trees and at last stopped to rest in a quiet neighborhood.

A woman sweeping her porch put down her broom and approached him with a generous smile. "Good day, Monsieur. Are you lost?"

"No, Madame," Jean said. "I live in Paris and work across the Seine and thought to take a walk. I've come further than I planned--would you tell me what this neighborhood is?"

"You are in Grenelle, Monsieur--and how far that is to go in this heat! Would you like some water?"

"Yes, thank you very much."

He waited as his acquaintance turned away, but she did not ask for his papers. It was quite a tranquil place, he noted, letting himself relax a bit as he drank. While he was sure he was not far from his flat, this place seemed weeks away from the bustle of Paris proper, full of sturdy homes with gardens that held vegetables rather than the windowboxes of flowers which decorated the high buildings housing many families.

He came across a white-washed farming house that seemed, if not older than the rest of the neighborhood, not as well-kept. The garden was barren save for weeds, the windows had no curtains, and the well to one side had clearly not been repaired in years. He knocked on a neighbor's house to ask if that house was truly devoid of inhabitants, and his suspicions were correct. After the father of the family had died, his wife and children left for Paris. No one had bought it, so it was now property of the state. He was given the name of the groundskeeper, who came on Tuesdays to maintain it in case of sale, and with that he wrote the address down on a slip of paper so that he might visit it again next week.

The house had struck a memory in Jean's mind; it looked very much like the farmer's cottage in Faverolles, the house of his younger years, before everything went wrong. With seven children and three adults, a house of that size had been horribly crowded. But with only two children and two adults--one child a ward until her mother sent for her, and the other being an adult preparing to move out at some time in the future--it would suit the family perfectly well.

To buy it was eight francs a month for two years, but after Josephine came with him to see the house, she was so eager that she told Jean she would split the cost of the first year with him, and that would be his room and board. By the end of the second year, Jean would have saved enough to buy a house of his own and Josephine would make enough to pay for the second year on her own.

Four rooms were in this cottage. One was Josephine's, one was Jean's, and one was for Mathieu. The last room was more mercurial. For now it was Cosette's, until she was sent to Fantine. The room would house any guests they kept, and in lieu of guests it would be Jean's study for writing letters. There was no stove and the cost for a new one was too much for them to think about, but as they had grown up in a house like this, Josephine bought new bellows and firedogs and toasting tongs and the rest of what was necessary for fireplace cooking. The children were fascinated, and then told very firmly not to try cooking with the tools if they were ever alone in the house, for an open flame was quite different from a stove.

Jean's colleagues from the Luxembourg all asked for and were granted a day of leave to help him move in, and so did some of Josephine's friends at the printshop.

There was a plot for a vegetable garden where Josephine's trees could be planted once they were large enough. For now it was too cold for most vegetables and the little trees would freeze in winter. So Josephine bought starters for herb bushes such as lavender and rosemary and thyme, and these she planted herself with the help of Donatelle and Ghislainie, as Jean was busy with the well. It was full of good clean water, and the only problem was the stone wall at the top crumbling. Jean set about rebuilding it with Maximilien, and gradually neighbors came out to greet the newcomers and help with the task.

Jean at first retired easily. But everyone seemed kindly towards him; for what they saw was no hardened criminal but merely the younger brother of Madame Gauthier, who shared responsibility in caring for the two lovely children, and was employed as a gardener on the right bank of the Seine. When it was revealed that Cosette was not his daughter but only his charge because she had been too weak to travel to her mother all the way to Montreuil-sur-mer, this softened their impressions further.

"How kind!" a woman told him, and Jean smiled as he responded, "Only common decency."

"Surely you had a house in Paris?" a man asked. "I hear it's crowded in the heart of the city. How did you find room to spare for the little girl?"

Josephine laughed. "We found the room, but we had no house. Only a flat with one bedroom between all four of us."

At last Jean set aside the fear that someone would ask what he had been doing, for in truth he had been employed at honest work for the better part of a year, and before that had been occupied with taking care of the children. Not to mention that this was no inn or any sort of workplace, so there was no reason he would be asked for his papers.

In the middle of that first day, Jean counted his remaining money and realized he had enough to finally buy a bed of his own. He resolved to do so before the week was out, thinking that Josephine would laugh at him for taking so long.

Twilight had fallen when he finished the well's wall and roof. Normally it would be cold, but his exertion had warmed him and he did not mind at all walking back to the house alone. He caught a glance of the house lit up with all their neighbors and Jean's colleagues gathering around the table for dinner. Children were shrieking with laughter and running around despite their parents' warnings not to run in the house, little Cosette among them, golden hair flying about. One of their neighbors had a big Briard shepherd dog with chestnut brown hair that Mathieu adored at once.

It was a year and some months since Jean had left Toulon. And the only problems Jean could think of in his immediate future were ensuring Cosette's health continued to recover so that she could return to Fantine; that he could find a house of his own within a year or two; that he report for parole on time; and that he could find some way to refuse Mathieu gently when the boy inevitably asked for a dog of his own.

Plans for hope and a future, Jean thought, and he smiled softly as he walked through the open door.

"Uncle Jean!" Mathieu cried, running up to him. His clothes were covered with dog fur and Josephine would surely be unhappy about that. "Uncle Jean, please! I asked Maman and she said no, but do you think we can have a dog?"

\- - -

Some weeks after they had settled in, Jean and the children awoke to an anguished cry before breakfast and rushed out of their rooms to find Josephine lamenting over her saplings, which had had all their leaves stripped off. As the tree were still in their pots, no animals or thieves could have possibly done it without someone in the house hearing, so Jean took the children aside and asked if they had anything to do with the damage.

Mathieu paused, then said, "I did, Uncle Jean. I'm sorry--I didn't mean to."

This admission would normally be applauded with a warning rather than discipline, since the leaves would grow back and it was not truly a bad thing; but the fact was that Mathieu had no interest in the trees aside from their fruit, and they were still half a year away from blossoming, much less bearing. So doubting the truth of this, Jean turned an eye to Cosette. She often watered them and begged Josephine to teach her to press flowers or leaves between books.

Cosette would not meet his gaze. For the first time he asked sternly, "Is this true, Cosette? You have absolutely no guilt in this at all?"

The child instantly burst into tears. "I just tried to do what Aunt Josephine did. The leaves smell so nice!"

"And--and I did do some of it, Uncle!" Mathieu said. "I woke up to Cosette crying and she said you'd send her back to the inn if you found out, so I did the same thing to the orange tree. And now that you know the truth, you have to send us both there now!"

He found himself torn between laughter, exasperation, despair that the children would even think that he would send them to the Thénardiers as any sort of punishment, and true respect at Mathieu's brave if misguided actions. People had often mistaken the children for siblings or cousins, and to see Mathieu defend her as he would his own sisters had they lived--Jean felt as if God was looking kindly on him at last.

So, after assuring them both that there would be no trip to the wretched inn for even the worst crime they could think of, and that the trees' leaves would grow back after a time so no real damage was done, he went to accompany them for admitting their fault to Josephine and properly apologizing. After dismissing the children for chores, Josephine brought out a pair of Mathieu's winter boots, tipping them over to send a flurry of leaves scattering out.

"I found this, but could not get them to confess anything--and meanwhile you had them speak the truth within moments!" She laughed. "Oh, Jean! They call you uncle but you are as good as a father to them."

"Please, Josephine," Jean said. "I will gladly take credit for Mathieu, but I was only looking after Cosette until she recovered. Fantine will send for her any day now that she is well."

"That is true." Josephine sighed. "But God in Heaven, how sweet it is to have children play in the house. We will visit them in Montreuil when Cosette returns."

"As often as possible," Jean said.

The next letter he wrote to Fantine and said that Cosette was thriving and healthy, and dearly missed her. She would likely be able to make a trip to Montreuil at any time Fantine wished.

Fantine wrote that she had taken an injury at work, and could not in good faith take her daughter until she was healed and could work again, but could still make the payments for two months from what she had saved and also gave them six more francs for the future trip. It was in the form of one napoleon.

Jean responded at once, sending it back to tell Fantine that she should get a doctor and the payments were unnecessary until she returned to work. He had not rescued a child from slavery only to have her mother die of infection, and with his new job could easily afford Cosette's care himself.

To which Fantine replied--less politely--that she was Cosette's mother and would pay for her own child's room and board and trip home. Within the letter were two napoleons. Forty francs were only a little less than the generous wages at the Orangerie for one summer month. As Fantine had never mentioned her own wages, he was sure that this all she had saved for least three months. At a loss, Jean showed the entire correspondence to Josephine, who inspected the money and letters closely and shook her head.

"This bodes ill," Josephine said. "A mother refuses her child due to an unnamed injury and then immediately sends all the money she has?"

"I fear I've offended her with all that talk of my work in the royal gardens," Jean said.

"No, Jean, not everything is your fault alone." Josephine paused. "If ever I had a reason to send all my money to Mathieu's caretaker... Perhaps this injury is worse than Fantine says, or it is illness instead..." She shook her head. "But let's not assume something so dire. Fantine is only--twenty-five, at most? I don't recall. At that age she'll recover from anything, even a broken leg. I'll send a letter of my own telling her to save that money for a doctor. She may listen more keenly to a mother like herself."

It was Saturday night and the post office was closed for the entire Sunday, but Josephine wrote the letter and sealed it anyway so she could send it immediately Monday morning. Before church while Josephine was scrubbing Mathieu behind the ears, Jean made sure to comb Cosette's hair until it shone and tied the braid with a blue silk ribbon Fantine had sent for Easter. Blue was Cosette's favorite color so she wore it each Sunday.

"Now Cosette, I've news of your mother--" Cosette stiffened and Jean made sure to speak lightly. "Don't be alarmed, little lark. I asked if she would like us to take you to Montreuil, but she's taken an injury at the factory. She will be unable to work for a time, and it might affect her taking care of you, so we have delayed taking you home."

Cosette pressed her mouth together and clutched his hand. "Is it very bad, Uncle Jean? Will she be all right?"

This fear was the opposite of what he had intended. "Not at all, dear, your mother was well enough to send letters to us." To be fair he was uncertain; Fantine had said nothing of her injury, which was indeed strange. Josephine's concern had, despite her reasoning, bled over to Jean. And now, it seemed Cosette was affected by it. He wondered if she had heard the conversation and rued his oversight.

"Maman was sick so very much," Cosette told him. "I remember in the winter she would cough so much that I heard it even in my dreams. She was so tired when she got up in the morning even after resting the whole night!"

"Many people fall ill in winter, Cosette, even grown-ups." But Jean had to admit that this was very close to lying. Of course he was a very strong man and still fit for work, but Josephine rarely fell ill despite her middle age. Fantine was in the spring of her life and out of all of them should have been the least likely to catch cold. Even if Cosette was making too much of it due to her love for her mother, Jean recalled how he himself had thought Fantine too delicate for a long winter journey--how she had seemed starved and shivering despite her smiles.

"But when she left me with the Thénardiers!" Cosette wailed. "Oh Uncle Jean, when you came for me I thought Maman had died!"

"Hush, now--" Jean attempted to calm her.

"It has been so long!" Cosette threw her arms around his neck, crying. "Why has she not come back! I know she would come back if she could!"

"Be at peace, Cosette," Jean said, embracing the weeping child. "Be at peace. This is why we go to church, to seek answers. And if we have no answers, we can at least trust in God to tell us in his own time. And we may also pray that your mother heals soundly."

At mass, Cosette lowered her head and clasped her hands together when it came time to pray, shutting her eyes and mouthing words to a fervent prayer. When service ended Jean and his family were walking out of the church when there came a call from the other side of the courtyard: "Good Sunday to you, Jean!" It was Donatelle. She had her five children and her husband stood beside her on a crutch.

"Hello, Donatelle!"

The children immediately began playing with each other. Josephine stayed to watch them as Donatelle gave Jean a kiss on the cheek. "How is the house?"

"Wonderfully spacious after so much time in that flat," Jean said.

"You've a cloud hanging over you still," Donatelle said. "And Cosette as well."

He looked at Cosette, who was playing with the children but retiring a bit to the edges of the group. He sighed. "She fears for her mother's health."

"It's nice to see that they love each other so well. But how sad! First daughter, then mother. What could have happened?"

"Fantine works at a factory and she's been injured. How, she did not say, but--" Jean went closer and lowered his voice. "This is strange, Donatelle. She said she could not work, but of her own accord sent me twenty francs to pay for two months of lodging for Cosette--and when I sent them back for her to see a doctor, she sent forty."

"Forty?" Donatelle asked. "You're very sure that it was forty?"

"Yes, it must be all that she's saved over the months since she went to Montreuil."

"What could she have saved? Losing fifty francs to those thieves, traveling five days away, and then paying you for lodging. I don't expect she's paid as highly as us at the Luxembourg."

"Well, where else could she have gotten forty francs at such short notice?"

"No, Jean--twenty and twenty," Donatelle said. "With that injury she refuses to speak of, I can think of something Fantine might have done."

"Whatever could it be?"

"A tooth goes for one napoleon if it is well-kept and well-plucked. If she sold one, then the other, that would give her two napoleons; or forty francs."

"But why?" Jean asked. "To suffer so much and not say anything!"

"I began taking teeth from the dead for the sake of my five children and husband." Donatelle nodded towards her family. "They are all my angels, but an only child is even more precious, as your sister knows well. Every woman in a pinch sells her hair if it's long enough; Fantine must have lovely hair if her daughter is any reflection--"

"Fantine has dark hair," Jean said. But he recalled it had been thick and shining, a perfect contrast to her long pale face.

"Well, dark hair still sells quickly if it is attractive."

Jean did not comment.

"Of course Ghislainie would get a handsome price for those red locks of hers. Mine is common and thin and now turning gray, but in a pinch I could get five francs from it, if I sold to the right people. It's not a long way from hair to teeth." Truly, Jean was discomforted with how Donatelle spoke so casually of it. A little ball rolled toward them from some other group of children at play, and Donatelle sent it back. "But anyway, we know not where she got the money. She might have happened upon a windfall of a job as we did. Or she might have saved, as you said. What a very decent man you are, to think the best of people as you do--having spent so much time in Toulon."

That struck a nerve. Jean snapped at her, "If you think I would assume that Fantine had fallen to stealing--"

"I beg your pardon, Jean," Donatelle said. "I meant nothing against your character or Fantine's. But know that people may make mistakes or even commit crimes--and knowingly, Monsieur!--if something compels them strongly enough. And yet they may still be good people. For instance!" She thumped his shoulder. "I know what you have done, yet I would trust you to watch my children over many people at this very church. Would you, knowing what I have done, trust me with your nephew?"

He cast an eye at the children. Mathieu was taking out his marbles and Josephine snatched them out of his hand, lecturing him about playing games at church. And at last he smiled. "Of course, Donatelle--provided I count his teeth before and after."

She laughed her raucous laugh, and the families parted ways.

But left to himself at home, practicing his writing drills, Jean thought of what Donatelle had said and for the first time harbored doubts about where Fantine was getting her money.

Plucking one's teeth to sell! He could not keep the terrible notion out of his mind. A dead man did not feel pain, but for a living person to submit to having a piece of their body torn out!

Fantine had made regular payments and said nothing whatsoever about going without food or doing anything out of the ordinary. But would she, even if she had? She had been hungry when her child was plump. She had worn threadbare clothing when her child wore silk and wool. And then he thought of other ways women might sell their bodies and he wondered if Fantine was in actual danger of falling to prostitution--or if she already had.

And how would he learn the truth? He trusted that Fantine loved her child and would lift the whole world on her shoulders if she must to save Cosette--but even in the short time he had known her he had seen a rather worrying habit of lying to seem more respectable. And one could lie far more easily in a letter.

That night as he prepared dinner with Josephine, he said, "I have been thinking of taking Cosette to visit her mother for Christmas. And to return, if not all of the francs, then some of them."

"I was thinking the same thing," Josephine said. "It is far better to converse of money in person rather than over letters. Do go to Montreuil. If all is well as Fantine says, then there will be no harm of it--Cosette does miss her so and I can imagine Fantine feels the same way. Christmas is a time for family."

And if all was not well... But Josephine did not bring it up, and Jean decided he would not think of that for the moment. The children were in the next room, and he worried that Cosette had overheard them speaking of the letters. So the day afterward, Jean took Cosette outside onto the steps and sat down next to her. She rested her head against his arm.

"Cosette?" Jean asked. "I have been thinking of what I should get you for Christmas."

"But won't that spoil the surprise?" Cosette asked.

"It is a very large present," Jean told her. "So I must tell you in advance. Anyway, this is the sort of gift which cannot be spoiled if I know you at all."

Cosette laughed. "Then please do tell me, Uncle Jean! What is it?"

"A carriage ride--to Montreuil-sur-mer." Cosette blinked at him with her huge blue eyes, astounded. "Yes, child, we shall visit your mother for Christmas."

"Oh! Really!"

"Really! Your mother loves you so much and has been away for so long that I think a visit for Christmas would make the best present of all. She is injured, so of course she cannot come to us, but we may go to her for a little while."

She laughed, returned to her giddy young self at last. She threw her arms around his neck, and then ran into the house. "Auntie Josephine! I haven't got my new shoes yet but Uncle Jean says--"

"Never mind the shoes, little lark," Josephine said. "They are not so bad as all that--and you don't want to ruin new leather traveling in the snow."

"Uncle Jean!" Cosette ran back to the porch before Jean had even reached the door. "We must bring some oranges! Oh--and I shall tell her that I can sign my name! I am so glad you told me, Uncle Jean! I should have been angry if I had gone without knowing it. I might have left everything I wished to show her!" She scurried back into the house, narrowly missing Mathieu writing a school paper on the floor.

"Maman!" Mathieu complained. "Cosette's running in the house!"

"Mathieu is writing on the floor!" Cosette shrieked.

Josephine did not look back from the fireplace as she responded, "Both of you, stop it at once!"

Mathieu sighed and brought his paper to the table. Jean, smiling, put a hand on Cosette's shoulder to stop her. She fidgeted like a young horse all the way to her room.

"What should I bring? Yes, my doll!" Cosette grabbed it out of her room and cuddled it. "I made sure to have it look like her, you see? And my blue handkerchief and that silk ribbon she sent me."

"It will be a fortnight before we even begin planning for the trip, little lark," Jean laughed.

After a full season of restoration, the Orangerie was in a good enough state that they could be left fallow for a while. As there was no snow to worry about, Jean's crew was given one month of leave for Christmas. So, with Cosette bouncing around in excitement at finally seeing her beloved mother, he hired a carriage to Montreuil and enough money for a few weeks' stay at a reasonable inn. In a hidden pocket of his green coat, he had the forty francs which he meant to return to Fantine in exchange for the truth.


	5. Of Fantine's truth revealed

**Montreuil-sur-Mer, 1819**

Jean and Cosette began their travel early on a white, crisp winter morning, and within only three days they reached Montreuil-sur-mer. In the business quarter, where he was told the factory was located, it possessed some of the energy of Paris--crowds and shops and merchants hawking their wares and everyone in a hurry to get somewhere. The inn he chose to house himself--and perhaps Cosette, though he felt sure she would stay with her mother when they found her--was quiet and clean, not far from the famous sea and yet close enough for Jean to walk anywhere in town if he wished. The salt smell fascinated Cosette.

They approached the factory in Montreuil--with two busy workrooms divided by gender. The men's workroom was something of a forge, making bullets for general use and small-swords for officers--he regretted bringing Cosette and pulled her past that workroom quickly, though she saw the lack of women and lost interest anyway--she was too excited to see her mother.

The women's workroom consisted of clothwork for both bandages and soldiers' uniforms. Jean was heartened to see that this was precisely what Fantine had described in her letters. The click of the shuttles and growing cloth on their looms drew Cosette's eye, but she readily stayed at Jean's side while they asked for the foreman.

"Monsieur," the foreman said. "And little Mademoiselle! What may we do for you?"

"I seek a woman by the name of Fantine who works here. Long dark hair--about twenty-five."

The foreman shook his head. "Beg pardon, Monsieur, no one named Fantine works here."

Jean smiled for Cosette's sake. "I'm told she was injured."

"I recall--such a woman was sent off months ago," one of the women said. "For--"

"Hush!" said the foreman.

But the damage was done; Cosette paled. Jean frowned, thanked the foreman for his time, and left with Fantine's daughter clutching his hand.

He left the girl at the inn when he set out to seek Fantine next. This time he asked for the residence of a Fantine with long dark hair, whose family lived in the area. She had four other siblings and both parents alive, which was all he could remember. This got him nothing, but after realizing that Fantine may have been a nickname as Cosette was for Euphrasie, he reluctantly returned to the factory and asked about Fantine again. This was when Jean learned that Fantine's proper name was Laurette Duvon. It did not suit her as well.

He found the house by the crossroads said to be the Duvon family home, and it was well-kept and well lit. He cautiously allowed a bit of hope to enter his heart as he walked up the path. "Good evening, Madame," he said to the old woman who opened the door.

"And to you, Monsieur!" She sounded much like Fantine, only older. While her hair was white and her face wrinkled he did see quite a resemblance. And when she greeted him she clasped her hands together, exactly as he had seen Fantine do sometimes. It was quite charming.

"This is the Duvon residence, yes?"

"Of course! What may I do for you?"

Smiling, he said, "I have an important delivery for a Laurette Duvon. She has not been to pick it up, so I thought to inform her--"

"Ah! Laurette?" The woman's manner changed immediately, to a sour frown he hoped never to see on Fantine's face. "No one by that name lives here, Monsieur. You must be mistaken."

"Then--" For the life of him, Jean was sure that this had been the right family and address. "Then, Madame, would you tell me of another family called Duvon in the area--"

"And why should I tell you such? You are the postman--not I!" Then she, wizened though she was, shut the door in his face.

Jean, heart much heavier, went back to the inn to feed Cosette supper and tuck her into bed. He could not bear to tell her what happened, how her own grandmother seemed to have forsaken Fantine and by extension Cosette. But she begged him for news so earnestly that he said, "Never fear, Cosette--I have not found your mother yet, but I will look a little longer and perhaps we'll have some luck before tomorrow ends."

"I'm sure of it, Uncle Jean! We are so close now! How happy do you think she will be?" Cosette tugged the blankets around her like a cocoon. "I think Maman will laugh so much! I miss her laugh most of all. She won't mind if we are late--will she?"

"Not at all," he assured her.

She started, jumping out of bed with her blanket trailing on the floor. "Oh, Uncle, I hope the oranges haven't been squashed."

"I made sure to put them on top," Jean told her. He picked her up and put her back in bed. "Now, little lark, off to sleep with you. I promise you'll see your mother when you wake."

She returned to wrapping the blankets about her and embraced her doll, singing the lullaby about the castle. While Jean had asked if she would like him to learn it and sing for her before she went to sleep, she refused, though not adamantly--she preferred her own mother to sing it. So he and Josephine had sung their own nursery rhymes. Jean smiled and waved to Cosette until he shut and locked the door securely.

The town was so small that he trudged through the entire length of it in his search for Fantine within a few hours. He asked the bakery; he asked a printshop; he asked a cobbler and a dressmaker--for she had said she was a seamstress in Paris. But alas, nothing came of it. And once all of the establishments had closed, he was at a loss. He began to ask the people who lived by the factory, but still he found no one who knew or remembered anyone by name of Fantine or Laurette in the past few months.

It was as if she had disappeared entirely.

Jean wondered if she had left without saying, and discarded the thought. The letters he received had still been from the post office here, so she must be nearby.

He paused in his search upon hearing a commotion by the docks. A woman wailed, and several men shouted loudly to be heard over her. He ran over into the direction of the sea, with a crowd of other people who also wished to see what was the matter. The scene was wretched; a half-dressed streetwalker with a shorn head, sobbing and clutching at a police officer's coat, and a well-dressed young man with fingernail scratches on his face.

"There's a child who sorely needs me--please, monsieur, she's about that high!"

The officer stepped back even as she spoke, and two of his fellows seized the poor woman by both of her thin arms. Jean was astonished to recognize the officer as Javert. This was the gendarme with a book of law where his heart was, and Jean stepped closer wondering if there was anything he might do to remedy the situation as Javert said, "I have heard such protestations every day for twenty years. Let's have no more explanations--save your breath. Save your tears."

Javert would not respond to pleas for mercy, but he would respond to a call for order. Jean cleared his throat. "A moment of your time, Javert."

"Hold your tongue, Monsieur," Javert told him. "This woman is to pay ten francs for disturbing the peace, or spend as much time in prison as will earn that sum."

While fear struck his heart, the woman shook her head, crying, clutching at Javert's coat and kissing it at times. She would have softened a heart of granite; but a heart of wood cannot be softened. Jean summoned his bravery by reminding himself: _I am no longer at the mercy of this man._ He had served his time and he was now doing honest work. He could speak. And he would, in defense of someone whose voice was not attended to. It was only right. "No, but surely there is a due process to follow. What does the woman say of what happened?"

The woman looked at Jean--not Javert, for she met his eyes and she seemed to recognize him--and she let loose a scream of utmost terror and threw an arm over her face. Again Jean was astounded. He had never harmed a woman in his life, nor visited Montreuil until this day. And all others were just as surprised as he; even Javert blinked several times and that was the most expression which could be expected of him. How could this woman be afraid--of Jean Valjean? For a moment he thought that in his effort to aid the situation, he had somehow made things worse.

But Javert said, with a note of reluctance, "Release her." And the officers loosed their grip. "Mademoiselle. Tell me what happened." He made to approach the woman, but she fell weeping to her knees in the snow, utterly inconsolable. Javert turned to the crowd. "Surely someone out of all of you can give an account."

An old woman cleared her throat. "The young man speaks false. I saw him exchange words with the--" She halted and changed what she had been about to say. "The woman. I heard not what she said, but she turned away--then he took a handful of snow and threw it down her dress. That was when she fought him and scratched him."

"Yes--the beast!" another woman said. She was dressed much the same as Fantine, with heavier rouge and powdered face. "That is what I saw!"

"And I!" cried one of the others. "Dear Fantine would never attack anyone unless she was defending herself--"

Jean felt the name like a knife. "Fantine?"

"No!" the woman howled. "That is not my name!"

"Fantine," he said softly.

Jean came as close as he could. While Fantine's dark hair had been shorn off, and her beautiful face was now even more gaunt than before, he did know her eyes--large and dark and now desperate, frenzied, reddened from tears. She was a walking skeleton garbed in the red dress of a streetwalker. "No, Monsieur--no, no, I've never seen you in my life--"

"All this time I was searching for you, and you were here all along." He reached out carefully, and she crawled away from him--crawled on all fours as a dying man on the battlefield. "Do you not know me, Fantine? I am Jean Valjean--"

"I am not Fantine!" She pulled away from him, vicious as a wild dog. One hand was streaked with blood. "Hell's fire upon you! I am not that Fantine you know! Begone!"

"Oh, God have mercy!" One of the other women rushed to Fantine's side, but was deterred by a sharp cuff which was only barely dodged. "She's gone mad!"

"Simply in a passion," Javert said. How could he speak so calmly when another human being was in such distress! "If she was indeed defending herself, I will let her be." And he turned to the young man. "But you, monsieur, are to follow me at once. As I said--there is a fine of ten francs for disturbing the peace, and if you cannot pay, you are to go to prison." Thus Javert walked off with his officers flanking the young man instead, who resisted for a moment but quieted when he was cuffed sharply.

None of the officers stayed behind to take poor Fantine to aid. Fantine's sisters of the night knelt about her, doing their best to calm her and help her to her feet; but she thrashed at everyone and lay in the snow half senseless, weeping and coughing at turns. She completely ignored Jean's questions from just beyond the circle of women surrounding her, and Jean reluctantly retreated a pace or two farther. There was red flecked on the white ground, and not only from the man's blood. When Fantine went silent, Jean feared she had expired.

But the women continued to soothe and shush: "That's it, dearie--you have a rest."

"Let's forget of all this mess." One woman took a handkerchief and carefully dabbed at Fantine's mouth. It touched Jean's heart, this display of compassion from so-called fallen women, in lieu of Javert's coldness.

"You're not in jail, so all's gone well," someone else reassured her.

"Better on the street than in a cell." The last woman slung Fantine's arm around her shoulders and stood, but quavered in the effort to move the limp weight.

Another took Fantine's other arm to help make progress, but the going was slow; they were not much better fed than she. Jean had no knowledge of where they were going, but he did know he was stronger than many men. He had lifted a mast once; he had moved full-grown trees on carts with rusted wheels. To stand idle when he could help these unfortunate people would be a sin. He took off his green coat and folded it over his arm, then put a hand on the shoulder of one of the women, and they halted.

"Fantine," he said. "I will take you to the hospital."

She drew her head up with as much effort as lifting the world. Their eyes met again; the mouth which was red with rouge and blood trembled; but at last she nodded and closed her eyes as if she would rather not, but knew she was too weak to protest. Jean put his coat around Fantine's shoulders and picked her up in his arms. The fragile shivering form could not resist; she weighed so little, like a bird with a broken wing, to be handled with the greatest of care.

"This way, Monsieur," one of the women said. She led in a different direction.

"But where were you going before?" Jean asked.

"I was taking her to my room," said the woman who helped her up.

"You stay with her?"

"No, Monsieur, Fantine has been on the street these past months."

"The street!" he cried. Then he looked to Fantine, but she appeared to be asleep. Mist rose from her mouth in time with her labored breathing, which he cautiously took as a good sign.

"She has a little girl who she loves dearly. She shared with several of us a while ago after her family turned her out." Jean was seized with horror as the sad story went on: "And when the rent rose, she chose to pay for her child's care rather than a room. In summer, it was not so bad; but once it got cold--" She wrung her hands. "She coughed blood, Monsieur!"

"Please, Mademoiselle--no more."

"And how do you know Fantine, Monsieur?" the other asked.

"I am the one who cares for her child." He recalled all of a sudden that Fantine had paid for six months of Cosette's care in advance. She had not expected to start paying after only one month--and like an absolute imbecile, he had not questioned whether this would be too much for her finances. "I had no idea of her situation or else I would have lightened the fee. I would even have stopped it entirely once I received steady work."

"Oh, no, sir, she would have insisted," the woman said. "She's sold her hair and her teeth and every dress she had save one--the only reason she's not sold her shoes is because she can't walk the streets with frozen legs."

That was right. Now the forty francs were now clear to him; as blood money, they lay heavy against his chest. Jean nearly asked further, then was torn between the fact that Fantine had not been honest with him and perhaps the only way he could find out the truth was asking others. "Never mind my questions," he said at last. "I should not have asked you about Fantine's affairs behind her back."

"Only practical, Monsieur. You wanted to know the truth, and Fantine would not tell it," she answered. "She is very proud in her own way."

"Monsieur--" Another woman following them pointed to a large, plain building. "The hospital."

They gave the unconscious Fantine a gentle parting caress on the cheek and the hand. Jean ascended one of the steps, then turned back. "Thank you very much. While Fantine has had no luck, I am glad she has friends here."

They both smiled. "Now I see why she would not tell you," the first woman said.

"I beg your pardon?"

They both laughed and left without explaining further. And Jean realised once they left that he did not know their names.

\- - -

The last Fantine remembered was Jean Valjean appearing in her hometown like a spectre. There were women comforting her as she sobbed on the snow-covered ground. As she awoke from her scattered memories, she heard a woman's voice. As she did not recognize it, she thought one of the other prostitutes had brought her to rest in their room for a while, one who she did not know so well. It was a warm bed--with no man in it. That was kind of them; she hoped they would not lose any money tonight on her behalf. And, she realized, she had been bathed and she was wearing clean clothes.

Then a man's voice answered, soft and rich. She knew it at once; she would know it after a thousand years; she opened her eyes to see Jean Valjean sitting at her bedside. Good Jean, who had done so much by rescuing Cosette from the innkeepers who had swindled her. He was a gardener now, according to his letters; tanned from the summer work, but otherwise unchanged. Honest work, unlike her. As she received letter after letter of how Cosette was thriving in his care, she had started to think of him as a saint in all but name. She could not repay him, not if she lived till Judgment Day and spent all of it atoning.

Now her worst nightmare had come true--he had arrived at last to find out her disgrace. He would never think she was a fit mother at all and refuse to return Cosette. This was the end. And she knew that it was the just punishment which she deserved, but how her traitorous heart rebelled! For even now she was desperate to ask if she could at least say goodbye to dear Cosette before they parted forever. Or even to look upon her from a distance.

"Fantine!" Jean seemed concerned as he noticed her awakening, reaching out to feel her forehead, but Fantine dismissed it at once. He would not be concerned for much longer. So she would accept no comfort from him, no matter how much she wished to take solace in the perpetual gentleness of his presence. After so many months of scorn and rejection from her hometown and her own family she could not trust that this stranger would be the same way. "Your fever has broken at last. Thank God!"

She wept--for the kinder he was, the more it would pain her when he inevitably turned round to shun her like everyone else. Jean came closer to clasp her hand and she pulled away from him. "Oh, Fantine, why do you weep? Are you still in pain?"

"I will never see Cosette again," she answered, voice little more than a rasp.

"What?" He looked to the woman--and it was not one of her sisters but a nun. Good God! Was she in the hospital? She would be turned out any moment for being a whore. "Sister Simplice, is the consumption so bad?"

"No," the sister said. "She has not eaten well for a long time, and sleeping outside in the cold has aggravated the disease. But her cough is not so terrible of itself; it is early enough that should she receive enough rest and good food she may recover fully, though she must beware of catching cold from now on."

Rest! Food! Those were as far from her reach as the Holy Grail, as her angel Cosette.

"How much time does she need, and how much would it cost?"

"A franc a day. I recommend one month at least. That would be thirty francs."

Jean reached into the inside of his coat and withdrew forty francs. "Here, Fantine. I came to Montreuil to return these forty francs to you--"

"No! Those are for Cosette!" Fantine cried, and started coughing.

"Cosette is not the one with consumption and fever. Or do you intend to die in this bed?"

She remained silent.

The nun, Sister Simplice, spoke. "To refuse this would be to destroy your own life. That is suicide as much as jumping from a bridge. Your soul would be damned."

"I am an unwed mother and a whore. I am already damned to the rest of this heartless village!"

"They may not judge you as the Lord may," Sister Simplice said. "Jesus forgave an adultress her crime; He forgave prostitutes their trade; but suicides are not forgivable."

"Why not?"

"If he without sin is the only one who may throw the first stone, and we are all born in sin, then the village may not stone you. And neither may you cast one at yourself no matter far how you have fallen."

"But I have not..." Fantine trailed off. She looked to Jean, who seemed moved by the speech; his eyes shone, they were so close to tears. She wondered why such a good man would weep at talk of judgment. When he saw her looking at him, he cleared his throat.

"Fantine," Jean said, "If you die--you will break Cosette's heart."

He put the coins on her bedside table.

"The first night for all patients is free of charge," the sister said. "In the morning I shall return and ask what you have decided."

\- - -

This was what happened in the very early morning before visiting hours were held at the hospital, and Cosette was still asleep.

Jean made a weary trek to the Duvon residence and knocked on the door to see a man of about sixty with gray hair. Behind him were Fantine's mother and only two of Fantine's siblings, a sister with yellow hair--of a cooler shade than Cosette's, and not so curly--and a brother with the same dark locks and fair complexion. The father did not seem surprised to see Jean, and the matriarch behind him frowned severely, but Jean held up his hand and spoke first.

"Fantine is ill with consumption," Jean said.

The one sister looked stricken and made as if to come forward, but Fantine's father shook his head. "There is no Fantine at this residence, Monsieur."

"There is no other Duvon family in the area, and only one Laurette who is also called Fantine. You are the family I seek, even if you will not admit to it. And I say to you that we are truly uncertain whether Fantine has much longer on this earth. It would do well for you to see your daughter."

"If she has gone down a road of sin she is no daughter of ours."

"Luc!" the mother cried.

"Papa," said a young man, who looked very similar to Fantine. "Fantine is dying--"

"Good day, Monsieur," the father said. Though Fantine's siblings and even the mother protested, he shut the door.

There was nothing else to do but go to the inn and get Cosette dressed. He combed her hair with great difficulty as she was, in the way of children, swinging wildly from happiness--that Jean had finally found her mother--to the great despair that Fantine had been found as ill as she was. And yet, Jean found himself preferring this difficulty to that of Fantine's family. If Josephine had wanted nothing to do with him after his imprisonment, it would have broken his heart.

\- - -

Fantine slept lightly nowadays. When the first rays of sunshine announced morning, she struggled to sit up and slid coins aside on the bedside table, one by one, until ten francs were separated from the forty.

"I will stay here for thirty days," Fantine told the sister. "Here are thirty francs for my care; give these ten to Jean Valjean, if you can find him. They are for my daughter."

"Will you allow visitors once we are done with the morning's ablutions?"

"If there are any visitors, I suppose let them in. I do not expect any, if that is what you mean." Now that Jean Valjean had returned her forty francs, she supposed he would have left. Cosette, of course, would still be in Paris. And her family would have nothing to do with her; and she had no friends.

Sister Simplice examined her and first of all mixed up some salt with boiled water to rinse her mouth with it. It stung horribly in the holes where her back teeth had been, and the brine came out more red than clear when she spat it into the basin. She did it again, several times. After she had eaten (a soft porridge with milk and perhaps a little honey) she washed it with plain water. But after the pain, her mouth did feel a little better. Cleaner, at least.

She lay back after the nun left, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had done the right thing. She had done nothing but work and search for more work since she came to Montreuil, scrambling to make payments as she lost her job, saying nothing to it of Jean Valjean. Now he knew. And now she had time on her hands, was in a bed without anyone else, and that was different. Comfortable, certainly. She was not sure if she deserved it, but she would not break Cosette's heart; so here she was, alive.

Whatever was she to do?

There came a knock on the door. "Fantine!" It was Cassandra's voice. "I've brought everyone with me and I hope you will let us in."

Fantine frowned as the door opened. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Visiting you, of course!" Béatrice said. "We have been bored out of our minds as usual now that our customers have gone home. But you must be even lonelier, we thought, so here we are."

"We can't expect that nuns are good company for ladies like us," Giselle laughed.

"And that fright you had with all the menfolk!" Odile tutted. She leaned in close to feel Fantine's forehead. "One after the other, hauling you about like a sack of grain! Did you sleep at all, dearie?"

These four women were the ones who had told her she was no grander than they. It was a curious feeling, talking to them; they reminded her of the friends she had in Paris; of Dahlia, Zéphine, and Favourite. Often they finished each other's sentences; often they were found with at least one of the others; and they were lighthearted. The difference was, of course, that they were each well into their thirties, and seemingly unashamed of it or their chosen professions. Fantine felt at once too young and too old to be truly one of their group. She was twenty-eight, yet too somber for them; she rarely joked of anything. She did not seek them out. But they found her always, somehow. They made a point of finding her after something distressing happened.

"Oh, what of that gentleman who scared the devil out of you?" Odile asked. "Not the father of your little girl."

"No, but Cosette has been in his charge since Christmas of last year." Fantine turned away and wept. "I had not told him anything! He thought I was still employed at the factory!"

"Don't cry, dearie," Odile said. "He seems a good man."

"Yes, and now he has seen to what depths I have sunk!" Fantine coughed, and immediately Béatrice seized a cup of water and held it out. "I will not have Cosette returned to me now that he knows I am a whore!"

"Whores can be good mothers," Cassandra said. "I think he knows that. Certainly the only thing I saw him object to was your starvation and consumption."

"He thanked me and Béatrice last night," Giselle said. "Imagine that! A man defends a prostitute unfairly arrested; then carries her to the hospital because she is ill; and then he thanks her friends!"

"He is polite like that; but returning Cosette to me is too much even for him."

There was a silence.

"Dearie, I think you have gone blind as well." Odile waved a hand in front of her face. Fantine batted at it weakly.

"Word has it," Giselle told her, "That he showed up at the factory with a little towhaired girl in hand, asking for you. Cosette is here; I think he would have returned her to you last night."

Though her heart leapt at the thought that Cosette was in the same town at last, Fantine shook her head and said dully, "But not today. He knows what I am now."

"He knows what? That you are a mother who loves her daughter very much?" Béatrice asked. Fantine sighed and rolled onto her side. They would not listen to reason, so there was no point in trying. She was away from the door, but still saw Odile and Béatrice, so she shut her eyes.

"Even from letters in someone else's hand, I think he could tell that," Cassandra said.

"I could," came Jean's voice. "Fantine, I have brought your francs back."

"For the last time, Monsieur Valjean: Those are for Cosette!"

"I don't want them."

The sweet young voice hit her like a bolt of lightning. Fantine opened her eyes and sat up to see Cosette holding Jean Valjean's hand. Rosy-cheeked, golden hair combed and braided and tied up into a blue bonnet Fantine had sent her as a gift, Cosette was wearing a matching blue woolen dress that was clean and pressed. Her shoes from last Christmas were stained with snow and dust but her stockings were new. She had recovered from her terrible stay at the Thénardier inn as well as if God himself had intervened. For a moment, a brief exhilarating moment as she met her daughter's eyes, all was right with the world--and then she remembered all that was wrong with it. All that was wrong with her. She turned around.

Cosette's shoes pattered on the floor. Jean's voice, so soft and kind--but of course he would be kind to an innocent child, no matter what the sins of the mother. "Now Cosette," he said. "Your mother is very weak, so be gentle."

"Hello," Cosette said nearer to her bedside. "Who are you?"

"We are your mother's friends."

 _That is a lie,_ Fantine thought. But it was one she was willing to entertain to save explaining to Cosette why she had no friends.

"Look at those lovely golden braids!"

"Here, sit on my lap so you can talk to your mother."

She felt a soft touch on her shoulder from a little hand. "Maman?" Fantine thought her tears had stopped, but they returned; and Cosette asked, "Maman, are you hurting? I will call the sister for you."

"No, child, I weep because--" She reached out blindly and felt Cosette grasp her hand. "Because, my dear sweet Cosette! I am so happy to see you."

The few hours with Cosette in the room were the best of her life. And yet also they were the worst, for unlike the carriage ride to Montfermeil, she had been so assured that the Thénardiers were a decent couple, that she would find a secure job, and that she would have time to break the news to her family in a way that would let them accept Cosette into the family.

The few hours with Cosette in the room were the best of her life. And yet also they were the worst. On the carriage ride to Montfermeil, she had been so assured that the Thénardiers were a decent couple, that she would find a secure job, and that she would have time to break the news to her family in a way that would let them accept Cosette into the family.

All of her dreams for the future had been shattered. One of Josephine's letters had been seized and ripped open by one of the other factory workers, who showed it to the foreman and caused her to lose the job she had tried so hard to find. Then of course, the word spread like plague in the small town and her family heard about Fatine's disgrace from a neighbor--a neighbor! And without even giving Fantine a chance to defend herself, her parents turned her out.

Sister Simplice came precisely when Fantine found her energy too depleted to sit up any longer, and laid a hand on Cosette's shoulder. "Hello, child. I know you wish to stay with your mother, but she is very ill and must rest now." She looked to the others. "You all must leave as well."

"I don't want to go," Cosette said, echoing the thoughts Fantine had. And then she asked, with the shocking forthright nature of children: "What if she dies without me?"

"It is not certain whether she will die," Sister Simplice said. "Your mother has made up her mind to accept my care for the next thirty days, and that in itself may mean she will recover even from consumption. I am sure your presence has strengthened her spirit. So she is in no danger of dying tonight. Rest easy."

"Come, Cosette," Jean said, holding his hand out.

"Maman, please make sure you do not die!" Cosette took Fantine's hand and kissed it fervently. "I will be back tomorrow, I promise--and if you are dead--I will weep so much, Maman!"

"I will not die before I see you again, my sweet." Fantine found herself unable to raise her head enough to give her child a kiss, and so she gave Cosette the most brilliant smile she could as Jean Valjean took her hand and led her away.

\- - -

That night, he heard a knock on the door of their room. The mother of the Duvon family stood there, holding her son's arm. "Madame Duvon," Jean said mildly. He did not stand aside to let them in, or move to wake Cosette. "If you'll pardon me, there is a child asleep in the room, so I would rather we speak quietly."

"I will not wake the child," Madame Duvon said. "And I take it you are not a postman, Monsieur."

"I am not; only a friend of Fantine from Paris. I wrote letters to you in her stead. And when she was robbed by the Thénardiers I found her daughter and took care of her."

"Is that Fantine's child there?" the young man asked.

"Yes."

"What is her name?" Madame Duvon asked.

"Euphrasie--but most call her Cosette."

"Euphrasie!" Madame Duvon echoed, and her stern countenance wilted, revealing that she was close to tears. The name obviously held some significance, but it was none of Jean's business so he did not ask.

"And what is your name, Monsieur?" Fantine's brother asked.

"Jean Valjean. I am a gardener and letter-writer in Paris. I have cared for Cosette since Christmas of last year." Jean looked at the sleeping child, hair braided loosely for the night and blankets wrapped around her. "She is a very bright little girl. I have begun teaching her to read and write as she is too young for school yet. My sister had lost her daughters due to illness and she adores Cosette. My nephew as well--he treats her like a sister."

"My daughter spoke sometimes of a student named Félix Tholomyès in her letters, who I assume is Cosette's father," the mother said. "Where is he now?"

"I know not. Fantine came to me before last Christmas asking to write a letter to you with Cosette already three years old, and she never mentioned the father. I can presume, however, that this--Tholomyès--abandoned her."

"And she left Cosette with you after writing to us?" the brother asked.

"No." He told the wretched story of the Thénardiers.

"Yes." The mother heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, that is just like Fantine, to trust the first person she sees. A man who abandons her--and innkeepers who rob her of near sixty francs! Why do you think we called her that, after all?" Jean thought of the rare laugh he had coaxed from Fantine once, and he sighed too. "How long will she stay in the hospital, Monsieur?"

"She will remain at the hospital for about a month longer."

"Monsieur, I hope we may trust you to deliver another message," the brother said.

"Whatever you desire."

"Tell her--tell her that until we can speak some sense into Father, she will have to settle for seeing us one at at time." He paused. "If she will have us."

"Of course." At last, he stood aside.

"Good Monsieur--" Madame Duvon reached out with a pale, wrinkled hand, and her large dark eyes matched Fantine's exactly. "You come from God in heaven." He took her hand and held it as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. "May I bid my granddaughter good-night?"

And even as his heart moved him to say yes, Jean hesitated. Cosette would have so many questions, all of them with such unpleasant answers for an innocent child. Why she had not met her mother's family until now? Why had Fantine deteriorated to such a state without any help whatsoever? Why were only two of the family here, and why had they not gone to visit Fantine? Why were they staying at an inn and not at the family's house? And why on earth she had not come with her mother, one year ago!

"If you wonder what I will say to her, Monsieur," Madame Duvon said, "I thank you for your concern, but that is my burden now, and not yours."

Jean stood aside and pulled out a chair by the bedside. The matriarch settled into it as a queen on a throne, and with the practice of decades she laid a gentle hand on Cosette's shoulder. "Cosette?"

"Maman?" Cosette smiled as she woke up, and looked with confusion at the strangers in the room. "Uncle Jean, who are these people?"

"I am your grandmother, Cosette. It has been a long time--but at last we meet."

"Hello, Grandmere! I didn't know I had one."

"You have an uncle as well," said Fantine's brother. "My name is Benoît, little one."

"Yes, you look just like Maman!" Cosette cried, delighted. "Hello, Uncle! Oh--" Her mood changed swiftly. "Oh, please! Maman is very sick! We cannot visit anymore today, but I hope you will visit her tomorrow!"

"We will, we will!" Benoît told her.

"Now, child," Madame Duvon said. "It's time for you to go to sleep. Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?" Cosette nodded eagerly, and the grandmother sang, "There is a castle on a cloud..."


	6. Of Fantine's recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or: in which fantine and jean both cry and reveal things about themselves
> 
> sorry for the long wait! I've been busy making costumes and working on other fanfic and original work, and life in general, that I sort of let this slide. but no longer.
> 
> SO KATE AND LEOPOLD. honestly, that movie's plot falls flat for me, and the costume work is really quite subpar. the silhouettes are VAGUELY in the right era, but not enough to make someone in a modern evening gown look out of place barring hair (cough). and mixing black and white tie?!?! come on!! i sure do like looking at hugh jackman in a suit, though. so that's what i imagine young jean valjean to look like. except, y'know, more middle-class.
> 
> this chapter is pretty short compared to the others, but honestly, it got done what needed to be done, and i just want to get started on the next chapter.

Jean awoke first as he usually did, got dressed, and then woke Cosette for a visit to her mother. Upon waking up, she scrambled over to the suitcase and snatched an orange out of it.

"We forgot to bring these yesterday, Uncle Jean!"

"Well, we were quite preoccupied. I'm sure it did no harm." He pulled out a chair and Cosette sat down for her hair to be brushed, though she was still restless and the task went slowly.

"But don't you recall? Aunt Josephine said that oranges would keep me from catching cold!" she reminded him. "So we must bring them for Maman now that we know she's ill. Oh, I wish we had brought more!"

"We had no idea of knowing how dire your mother's situation would be," Jean assured her. "And anyway, they would spoil after too long. I'm sure what we have will aid her."

"Do you think we can find some at market when we have finished these?"

"I would buy more if we had the means," Jean said with regret, "But unfortunately, Cosette, oranges are quite expensive. The only reason I take so many home is because I work at the Orangerie, and that is all the way in Paris."

"Then we should bring Maman to Paris with us!" Cosette exclaimed.

"A very good idea, my dear lark," Jean said. "But your mother is quite weakened now--I do not know if she will be strong enough for the trip." That was assuming her consumption did not end as sadly as so many others had--with death coming to visit before a fortnight had passed. Cosette did not need to know that.

"Oh!" Cosette swung her legs about in frustration, making the chair hop so much that her braids were nearly ruined. "Then what do we do, Uncle Jean?"

He thought of saying that the Duvons, her grandparents, might have softened towards Fantine to shelter her during her recovery, but discarded it. Besides being too uncertain, he did not wish to answer the question of why they would not take her in now and forego the month-long stay entirely.

He thought of saying that he would send Fantine the funds necessary for her recovery, but a recovery from consumption, of all things, would be too lengthy for him to consider without depleting his own savings. He knew Josephine would give aid in a heartbeat once she was told of Fantine's condition, but he could not bear the thought of asking outright for money--and with how Fantine handled the return of her francs, she may not take money from either of them at all.

He sighed. "We wait until the month is over, and hope God will show us a way through this difficulty. But it may be that--" Cosette crossed her arms and kicked some more. The chair thumped and scraped on the floor, and Jean held it still with one hand, foregoing the braiding. "Please, dear Cosette, listen to me. It may be that we must leave your mother here, and wait in Paris until you are sent for--as we'd planned from the beginning."

"But that was when we thought she was all right!" Cosette cried. "I don't want to leave Maman here all alone! I was alone at the Thénardier inn and that made everything feel so much worse. But when I was with you and Mathieu and Aunt Josephine--you were all so kind. I wish we could bring her back with us, I'm sure she would recover quickly!"

"Your mother has her own friends here," Jean assured her. After a moment, he added, "And your grandmother and uncle, at least."

"My grandmother?" Cosette turned to look at him, then around the room. "I thought that was a dream. She sang the same song Maman did..."

"She did come here last night. She must have sung that same lullaby to your mother when she was a child."

"Well..." Cosette slumped back against the chair, and Jean took the opportunity to braid her hair as quickly as he could. "Well, if she will not be alone... I suppose leaving her here won't be so bad."

"That is quite right, little lark," Jean agreed, relieved that she had come to the conclusion herself. "Now, recall that we are staying here for the entire month. You must enjoy the visit while it lasts, and not think too much ahead to the sadness of leaving. How about you bring your doll as well? I think your mother would like that a great deal. She will not mind us being a half hour late."

Jean and Cosette arrived to find Sister Perpetue bustling about the sickbed. One of Fantine's friends, Giselle, sat at her bedside holding her hand, and a thin cough punctuated the nervous atmosphere.

"Maman?" Cosette asked timidly. "We are sorry to be late. Do you feel very bad today?"

"Madame Duvon visited," Giselle spoke. "There was a commotion when Fantine said she would not have her. It excited everyone a little too much for the morning, that's all."

"Worry not, child," Sister Perpetue told her, in her strong Alsatian accent. This was a hearty woman who had been a butcher's wife. Upon being widowed, with her children grown up and married away, she had left for the convent. "A quiet visit from you will do her good, perhaps."

"May also I give this to Maman to eat?" Cosette held out the orange.

Perpetue looked at the orange and said, "But of course! An orange is a blessing to the ill. I only wonder where you got one in winter, little one."

"From Uncle Jean," she answered dutifully. "He works at an orange garden in Paris, but the garden is indoors so we may have oranges all year." She looked at her mother, who had calmed somewhat and even stopped coughing as much. "Here, Maman! I don't know if you've tried any, but they are very sweet!"

The fruit was so bright and cheerful that even somber Fantine smiled. Giselle peeled it for her, and the skin was so fragrant that Fantine told her to set it on the table rather than throwing it away. But upon biting into a piece, Fantine winced--Jean realized that the tart juice would sting as it washed over the wounded parts of her mouth. Yet, under Cosette's worried eye, Fantine gave a trembling smile and finished what she could, only a few slices. And then she set it aside for the icebox.

"My sweet, this is delicious--but I... I simply cannot eat anymore."

"Yes, it is too close to breakfast," Giselle added.

"Fear not, Cosette, I shall have more with luncheon and supper."

At this rate, the oranges would certainly spoil before Fantine could eat them fresh. Jean finally recalled that preserves could be made of them, so he collected the rest of their oranges and went to the greengrocer's with Cosette to ask if they could be made into marmalade. All he had to pay for was the sugar and the four jars. This was much easier on Fantine's wounded mouth and one of the nuns heaped a spoonful on Fantine's porridge when Cosette visited in the morning.

\- - -

Jean took heart from how, at least to his inexperienced eye, Fantine seemed to venture much farther from dying than she had when he had arrived in Montreuil. There was color in her formerly death-white cheeks and her frame was not so hollow. She coughed at times, and still there was blood, but after a fortnight had passed Sister Simplice listened to her breathing and looked into her mouth.

"The worst is over," the nun said. "This blood does not come from your lungs but from your mouth where your teeth were pulled. Such wounds heal slowly to begin with, but even more so when a long malady has run its course. And you have been starved, besides. They are not infected, but you simply need more time. Once this month is over I suggest another fortnight."

"I have no more money to stay here even one more night," Fantine said. "I have not worked and those thirty francs were all I had."

Jean cleared his throat.

"Monsieur, before you speak, know that I will not take your money."

"That is well," Jean said, though he had been about to suggest it. He had thought that he would resume writing letters in Montreuil in order to extend Fantine's stay at hospital after they returned to Paris, and when they reached home he would send the rest over via mail. "But what if the good sister were to inform us of your care, and you would stay at the inn rather than in hospital?"

"And who would be paying for my room and board at the inn, Monsieur?" Fantine shook her head. "No, I cannot do that."

"Then what of your family?"

He instantly realized that this was the wrong thing to say. What came out of Fantine's weakened throat was a quiet, trembling rage. "My family! The very same who turned me out onto the street to begin with? They only came to visit because they thought I was dying! Now that I am alive--well, I still have a child and no husband. And furthermore I have been a prostitute. No one will employ me now! Why would my family take me back, Monsieur, if my great sin has not been remedied but made even worse?"

"They have come to regret their treatment of you," Jean told her. "Your mother has spoken to Cosette--and so has Benoît."

"A very fine way to show their forgiveness. Speak to the innocent child and not the sullied mother."

"Yet they have tried to visit you--"

"And I will not have them! Yes, as God is my witness, if they had not already met Cosette I would forbid them from speaking to her again!" Fantine coughed, a wetter sound than usual, and out of habit Jean rose to fetch water.

"Fantine." Sister Simplice laid a hand on Fantine's shoulder. Though the nuns had been kind and even smiled to see Fantine's dedication to their child, this gesture was the first touch outside of pure necessity that Jean had seen from either of them. It was a soft one, and it held that curious quality of transforming Fantine's anger into tears. "You are right to feel despair and even rage. Your family has treated you far more cruelly than they should, when all you have done is stray from the fold against your will. But do not let your anger blind you to a true change in their manner. I think they mean well."

"Suppose they refuse me once more," Fantine wept, clasping the nun's hand in fear. "I could hardly bear the first time they abandoned me!"

"Only God knows the future," Simplice said. "Your task now is within the present moment, and that is simply to get well. If you still feel like refusing your family, then ring the bell and we shall escort them out."

\- - -

On a day when Jean, Cosette, and Fantine's friend Béatrice were the only ones left at Fantine's bedside, the sun had set but it was a bright evening with all the snow shining under the light of a full moon, and the town was merry. People outside the hospital whistled as they came home from work, or ran errands, or simply walked in the pleasant air. Perhaps another family had stopped to visit the chapel by the hospital, for nearby there was a little girl was going and coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. As children do, Cosette was drawn to the sound. Her hold on her mother's hand loosened slightly.

"Maman, may I go see who that is?"

"Of course, dear," Fantine said. Her voice was a touch weaker than usual. "Visiting hours are nearly over now. Run along and play. I will be here tomorrow."

The dear child gave Fantine a kiss on the hand and ran off at once. Beatrice immediately left to watch her in Fantine's place.

Jean, sitting next to her bed, took advantage of the solitude to speak to Fantine. "How do you fare today, Fantine?"

"Very well, Monsieur, thank you."

This was exactly the same as she had said for the past fourteen days. "I beg your pardon if this is forward. I know you were distraught upon seeing me, and I have seen that you now speak to me as little as possible. If there is aught I have done to cause you such grief, I should like to know--for I believe we were friendly before your departure."

"Oh, fear not, Monsieur Valjean!" She looked him in the eye and smiled brightly. If it had not been the very same smile she had given him when she said Cosette was too delicate for winter travel, Jean might have believed it. "It is nothing you have done."

"Then perhaps it is something I may do in the future which frightens you."

Fantine's countenance changed entirely, seized up with fear, and though she shook her head and smiled, it wavered. "It's a silly thing, Monsieur. I know you are a good man. You have only ever acted in--" Her voice cracked. "In the best interests of Cosette."

"Fantine, I beg you to tell me what you fear, and I swear I will not do it, even to save my own life."

He thought of her occupation as a prostitute and wondered if this was not the reason for her distance. For, he had been keenly aware, he was the only man to visit her as her brothers and father had not yet come to call. Fantine spoke to Cosette the most, carried conversations with her four friends normally, and after Sister Simplice's reassurance the other day she even bestowed the nuns with a brief but genuine smile upon their entrance to her bed. And Jean was not only of that same gender which had exploited Fantine terribly from her abandonment to purchasing her body, but a particularly tall and strong specimen. It was why in the company of children and women Jean took such great care to appear tidy instead of rough, to speak softly, to avoid showing anger.

"Would you refrain even if such an action would save Cosette's life?" she asked.

It seemed that what Fantine dreaded was not at all what he thought. Yet he had no idea as to what it might be instead. "Whatever do you mean?"

"My greatest fear that you will not return Cosette to me. That you will give her to my family instead."

"But, Fantine, why would I not return a child to her mother?"

"Monsieur--don't mock me now, I pray!" she cried out. "I am unfit to take care of her! I have not done honest work, I am not married, and most of all I am not well!"

He wondered if there was some other nun who had been berating Fantine on her sorry life, and quickly shook his head. Fantine had risen, though the effort shook her frame, and Jean carefully put his hands on her shoulders to still her. "Fantine, if anyone has told you what I might do, I beg you to hear it from me instead." He looked her in the eye. "As soon as you are well, I will return Cosette to you, and no other. That is what you and Cosette wish most dearly."

"Oh--do you mean it? Truly?" She burst into tears and it was as if all the words she had refused to speak to him were a river which had been blocked by a dam and now freed. "Monsieur, I screamed when I saw you because I thought--now that you had seen the true extent of my shame--that you would keep Cosette from me. For I confess now that not only have I done all these shameful things, but even before then, I lied to you. From the very moment we met! You have called me Madame but I am not a married woman, and I never corrected it until we spoke a few days ago! I will die if you send Cosette to my family instead--they will surely bar me from seeing her--!"

Color was rising in her cheeks, but not in a normal manner; her breathing was labored and she sounded as if she might start coughing. Jean hurriedly lay a hand on her shoulder again and said, "Peace, Fantine, peace. It changes nothing that you have lied to me, not of your being married nor of your ocupation. There are married women doing honest work who do not care for their children half as much as I have seen you do. I swear the only reason I have delayed returning Cosette is because you are not well. And as the sisters have told us all that your life is fragile but no longer in peril, the delay will soon be over. Forgive me. I had not known your fear was thus."

"You will return Cosette to me even though you know all this?" Fantine sounded as a woman who did not believe what she was hearing, though it was clearly her greatest desire.

Jean paused for a moment. But as long as they were both being honest with each other, he felt he might as well admit to his own misdirection. "I harbored a suspicion that you were unmarried. And I called you Madame because they were, after all, only suspicions. But even after I realized you were lying, I found no harm in continuing to call you such. In a way, you began the lie, but I upheld it."

"You knew this the whole time? And still you were so kind to me! How on earth..."

"He without sin may cast the first stone." Jean smiled faintly. "Who was I to be unkind towards someone who had trespassed in a different way?"

"Being born in sin is not the same as committing an act!" Fantine protested. "You are a good man, Monsieur Valjean--not nearly on the same level as I. For you must think such a sin is--not going to church, or speaking harshly towards your nephew or sister... Or some such thing."

Here was when Jean paused the longest of all. He could leave off the conversation as Fantine showed no sign of believing him. But he was compelled to say, "Fantine, I tell you without exaggeration that I have committed a crime for which I was condemned to spend five years in Toulon."

"Five years! Toulon!" Fantine shook her head. "You are trying to make me feel better, Monsieur. Obviously you have never lied in your life, or you would be much better at it."

"I have indeed lied, but this is not one of them," Jean asserted. He recalled that his passport was in his pocket, and he withdrew it from his coat and opened it to the first blue page detailing his history in Toulon. Fantine could not read, but the color alone would prove his point. "Here."

"What--what is that?"

"A passport bleu."

"Yes, I see, but--" Fantine looked from him to the passport. "That is given to... to criminals." She met his eyes only briefly before wavering. "I do not believe that is yours," she said, though it was softer than before. "Why--Monsieur! How dare you! You know I cannot read and so--how may I tell whether this passport bears your name or someone else's?"

"Why would I carry someone else's passport on my person, and that of a criminal? The only person whose papers I can find are my sister, who has committed no crime herself. My nephew and Cosette have not, either, and they are children besides."

She did not respond.

"This passport says that I stole a loaf of bread. I broke a window to get it, and for the cost I spent five years in Toulon. Call Sister Simplice and have her read the first page, if you wish." He held out the passport to her. "You may examine it to see if there seems to be any trick."

Fantine took the passport, still disbelieving. She opened it, flipped through it, shook it as if to see if any pages were loose, and then tugged at the sheets themselves. The pages held. She reached up to ring the summons bell, and within a few moments Sister Simplice arrived.

"Yes, Fantine?"

Fantine held it out. "Would you read this out loud to me?"

"Monsieur Valjean can read, can he not?"

"I... He has told me what is in it already, but I wish for a second person to read it as well. To ensure that it is correct."

Sister Simplice took it, and her austere brow furrowed. But she read it out loud calmly and clearly. "Monsieur Jean Valjean, born 1787. Height of six feet and two inches, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Has committed a crime for which he served five years imprisoned at Toulon. Crimes: 1) Destruction of Property: Broke the window of a bakery, amounting to a loss of 12 francs for replacement and installment. 2) Thievery: Stole a loaf of bread amounting to a loss of two sous. As the crime was minor, the time was served in full, and M. Valjean displayed good behavior during and after sentencing, he has been deemed fit for work at any usual place of employment.'"

The silence fell, and grew.

"Thank you, Sister," Fantine said at last. "That was all I needed assistance with. Hand it back to Jean Valjean for me."

The nun gave it back to Jean and left.

When Fantine spoke next, her voice was so soft Jean leaned forward to hear it: "Why did you steal the bread?"

"Josephine had seven children back then. It was winter, and her husband had died. I was a tree-pruner; there was no work in winter. And it is a maddening thing when seven children are crying and the only thing that can stop their tears is bread, yet you have none. I was desperate."

"Seven?" Fantine repeated. "I saw only Mathieu. You never said he had brothers and sisters."

"He has none now." A tear escaped Jean's eye and fell onto Fantine's hand. "Of them all, Mathieu is the only one left alive."

"Oh!"

"It was illness, not starvation," Jean stated. "Yet I hear their voices sometimes, in my dreams. When I see other children crying, it is as if their ghosts appear. Madeleine--Madeleine was my favorite niece, and while she lay dying I was rotting in a cell in Toulon. I have not the strength to ask Josephine of anything--of the illness which took them, if the children wondered where I had gone to. I wish I had not stolen that bread; but not because of the time I myself lost." Jean sat up straight, away from Fantine. He brought his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. "If I had been free, perhaps I may have done something about the children--or perhaps not. Either way, I would have been there as it happened, and not found out in a letter after the fact. My sister bore that grief alone; my nieces and nephews died without me; when I think of my crime, that alone is my greatest regret."

When he looked back to Fantine, there were tears dripping from her dark eyes, onto the pillow and sheets.

"Forgive me," he said. "I have upset you." She shook her head, and Jean took it as a signal to leave. He stood up. "If you wish for someone else to care for your child, knowing my history now, only say so and I will find someone--"

"No--wait--" She sat up and reached to him with a long, still birdlike hand. "Please, Jean!"

At his name, he stopped. He could not fathom the emotion that surged through his veins at the sound of Fantine finally calling him by name. It was like relief, but a painful kind. To prevent Fantine's distress from growing further, he returned to the chair at the bed. And as soon as he came within reach Fantine took his hand, clutching it. While she was weak, he allowed her to hold him.

"You did not upset me," Fantine said. "I wept because the court showed you no mercy or compassion, the same way that dreadful Javert did not hear me out. And yes, Jean, I do believe you now."

"Would you believe that it was also Javert who was my guard at Toulon?"

He did not mean it to sound like a jest, but Fantine laughed, a shrill one, almost wild. "No, Monsieur--that would be too much entirely." Perhaps Fantine had not meant to laugh, either.

Anyway Jean smiled and said nothing more of it. He did not mind her calling him Monsieur so much, for now she held onto his hand as if it was a lifeline and her bed the great sea. He took a damp washcloth and daubed her forehead with it, and when she calmed, what weakened grip she had loosened. And her blinking eyes slowed further, as if they were growing heavy. But she did not cough, and she was not fevered; Fantine was simply falling asleep.

"Well, Fantine," he said softly. She blinked and looked up at him. "I may have not upset you, but visiting hours are nearly over, so I must be off. Good night."

"Jean," Fantine spoke drowsily, just when he reached the door. Again he stopped. "Should something happen to me, I would rest in peace knowing that Cosette had a home with you and your family."

"Of course."

She smiled, as she rarely did with anyone besides Cosette. Something within her had changed, and the difference shone out in the candlelight. While her hair was shorn and her skin riddled with bruises and scars, she again resembled the young beauty who had come to his door a year ago. "Then tell Cosette I love her, and I'll see her when I wake."


End file.
